Hard To Believe It Will Be Okay
by silverluna
Summary: Carlton Lassiter is having a horribly bad day, and it's only going to get worse. Written for psychout89's "Down the Well and Back Again" Challenge on psychfic. NOT SLASH. Graphic violence and suggestive themes warning.
1. Prologue: The Sun Blotted Out

**Hard To Believe It Will Be Okay**

A _Psych_ Story

By silverluna

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Summary: Carlton Lassiter is having a horribly bad day, and it's only going to get worse.

Main Character: Carlton Lassiter

Other Characters: Juliet O'Hara, Chief Karen Vick, Shawn Spencer, Burton Guster, possibly others

Pairings: None

Timeline: Season Three-ish.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. In other words, I own absolutely nothing having to do with _Psych_. This story is purely for fun and still, alas, no money is being made by me from it. I also do not own any of the songs from which I made name the chapters after. I also do not own Converse.

Author's Note: Written for psychout89's "Down the Well and Back Again" Challenge on Psychfic dot com. I got inspired and started writing, which is awesome, but I don't have a completely definite plan as to where this is going yet, so I'm going to do what I've done before, which is taking this slowly and "following the characters" to see where "they" want to go. As requested in the challenge, this will be a Lassiter centric story with whumpage. (And a plot too, I promise.) It's shaping up to be a Hurt/Comfort/ Whumpage story so far, likely also a Suspense. Rating for language, some suggestive material, and general whump. This is NOT a slash fic.

Here are psychout89's words on the challenge: "So there's tons of shameless Shawn whumpage all over the place. Well, what if it's Lassie? So basically Lassiter is having a terrible day and when he gets a lead on a case, he investigates it alone cause he doesn't think it'll pan out. Turns out, the lead was spot on... and now he's in big trouble. Will he make it out alive? Well that's up to you. Just make sure it's mostly Lassie's POV . . ."

There is a minor spoiler for the _Pilot_ (Season One).

Reviews and feedback are appreciated. Happy reading!

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**Prologue: I Want To See The Sun Blotted Out From The Sky**

He was going down. Had he been alone, with no witnesses to his shame, Carlton Lassiter knew he would have just as chagrined, furious and unforgiving to this minor slip into clumsiness. But it was at least 64% worse he tripped here, in the middle of the Santa Barbara Police Station, over his own feet or own long legs, not completely certain of the culprit in his missteps as he lost his tentative balance with gravity.

Of course, he hadn't been empty-handed. His morning, even before setting foot through the double doors outside the station, had been filled with several annoyances and frowns, so much so that even O'Hara had commented at first sight of the deep creases on his forehead and the white half moons under his eyes. Lassiter had been sitting at his desk for nearly an hour and a half, gritting his teeth over paperwork he had to redo due to a some asinine rain leak. Chewing out the clerk hadn't, surprisingly, made him feel any better, but it hadn't stopped him. Only when he felt O'Hara's warning squeeze on his arm had he realized he'd reduced the clerk, a sixteen year old boy with a worker's permit and a very new driver's license, to blubbering, red faced apologies.

"Carlton, he didn't know the roof was going to leak in that exact place and ruin your morning," O'Hara had scolded, fixing him with narrowed eyes that seemed to demand where, exactly, his mind had been wandering when she'd spoken passionately about his need to become more personable a few days prior.

He'd grunted something unintelligible and she'd only sighed, not at all expecting a real apology.

After the monotony of these redoes, Carlton had felt a tension headache starting at the base of his neck. It had clawed its skeletal fingers up his scalp, beneath his hair line, and had just begun its tight squeeze on his temples. He'd held it off as long as possible, opting to not pop some aspirin and instead ducked out for a jolt of caffeine. He wished he could blame it on the flimsy Styrofoam; why couldn't he have foreseen that today, of all the days in this week sent straight up from Hell, that he should have taken those few extra seconds to grab a lid? Or maybe he had turned around too quickly, never before believing that skipping breakfast just this once could really make his head spin. (He had always recovered, even if he'd allowed himself those few seconds in a hungry darkness before he could stab it back, reminding himself of a lunch break in a couple of hours).

The hot, black liquid splashed over the lip, scalding his right hand first, then was propelled towards his cheek and nose during his stumble. Lassiter fell forward in the same moment the coffee was pulled up, out of the cup, towards his face. He couldn't stop his inappropriate curses, more so when some liquid hit his mouth, before his lost his grip on the cup and the remaining coffee spread out across the linoleum two or three seconds before his lanky, muscular 6'1" frame landed with a sickening thud. His chest took the brunt of the fall.

Activity paused; he suspected the three or four pairs of eyes he had gotten an angry look to just prior to his fall had tripled— it wasn't everyday that the Head Detective would be lying there on his face after making a fool of himself. The figures were either silent with stunned concern, or were laughing to themselves that Carlton Lassiter was not the infallible man that he presented himself as. Carlton bit back a groan, his cheeks coloring with both embarrassment and fury. His nose and forehead throbbed, and his already burned right hand was resting in a pool of scalding coffee. As he jerked the fingers on his right hand, pulling his arm towards his body and making a loose fist, the voices started asking if he was all right, did he need a hand getting up, should one of them bring out a first aid kit? It was hard for Lassiter to decide if this was more humiliating then the long stretch of silence— which, as he thought about it later, might have been less than ten seconds.

Forgetting again about O'Hara's mini-lecture to him, he growled from his crumpled position that he was fine and they had better, if they all knew what was good for them, be out of his sight by the time he got up. Carlton moved gingerly but worked his jaw until his expression was neutral in case anyone should happen to be watching him; he didn't want to admit how much pain such a stupid accident had bought on.

Maybe this wasn't so bad; even though he was certain the coffee had likely given him first degree burns and had probably soaked through his clothes in the most embarrassing places; did it mean he couldn't salvage today? (He had been warned though, already, while buttoning up this white dress shirt earlier that morning, after he'd nicked himself shaving four times, the third cut a thin rivulet of blood slipping down his neck, that perhaps this day would not be a lucky one.)

Lassiter was pushing back on his knees, inching his long arms towards his body in order to get himself to his feet when he heard a snicker. He lifted his head enough so that he was looking down on the dirty toe of a blue Converse shoe. "Clean up on aisle six!" Spencer bellowed out, unable to contain a hysterical giggle. Lassiter's mouth stretched tight across his face in a frown; it seemed official, this day was screwed. He could only hope to survive each agonizing second of it and tomorrow, when he opened his eyes up to new light, it would be a better one.

Lassiter barely registered Guster's white tennis shoes; he was standing further back from the mess, obviously having just a smidgen more of sense than Spencer. He hadn't uttered a word, not a laugh or even an offer to help, but Lassiter still assumed that Guster was staring at him in this moment of weakness and wondered if he were among that smirking brand of officer and their silent laughter.

Spencer had the nerve to squat down and actually offer his hand in gesture of mocked concern— Carlton saw immediately the condescending look in Spencer's eyes. "You okay, Lassie?" Spencer asked, reaching out, only infuriating him more.

"Get the hell away from me!" Lassiter barked. He winced internally as both wrists slid and bent awkwardly in the puddle of semi-hot semi-lukewarm coffee still on the floor. He wiped absentmindedly at some stray liquid dripping off his nose with the knuckles of his burned first.

"Lassie, your hand is—" Shawn began, the condescending look dipping low in his eyes for a moment as he looked over Lassiter's burn.

"It's nothing," Lassiter snapped. After untangling his legs from each other, he pushed to his feet, ignoring any minor shaking he experienced in his limbs. He was starting to head towards a bathroom when Chief Vick's voice stopped him dead.

"Detective Lassiter, did you forget about our ten o'clock meeting with Internal Affairs?"

Lassiter cursed under his breath, and swallowed some other angry grunts, and then turned towards her, hoping to keep the embarrassment at the condition of his appearance under wraps. "No, Chief," he called out tightly, taking steps back down the hall towards her. She gasped. He ignored it, skirting around the puddle and Spencer, who was still squatting on the floor.

"Detective, you're bleeding," Vick muttered as Lassiter got close. Carlton paused, his right hand going up to his face; he heard Vick gasp again, and then dropped his burned appendage, after getting a quick glimpse of his reddened skin, to his side.

"It's nothing," he repeated, though much softer. At that moment, Spencer sprung off of the floor, insinuating himself between the two of them, his fingers pressed against his forehead in typical fashion. Though he didn't show it, Lassiter was mildly surprised when Spencer claimed responsibility for coffee spill and Lassiter's embarrassing fall. _Goddammit_, if she hadn't seen it, she didn't need to know about it, but here Spencer was, telling her every detail as if he'd been standing there, watching it literally go down. Carlton grumbled, rolling his eyes and gritting his teeth so hard he was reminded that his headache was only getting worse. He took the opportunity of the distraction to back away, carefully, in case his feet were still against him, to at least get some paper towels from his desk to wipe his face.

A few seconds passed tranquilly; he should have known that couldn't last.

"Carlton?"

Lassiter tensed; he had had his back to the door and had not heard his partner's approach over the rumbling of his angry thoughts. His face turned scarlet, not because of his now muddled appearance, but because he had suddenly remembered the reason he had startled awake twenty minutes before his alarm. He had bolted upright, the sheets sliding part way to the floor; the muscles in his shoulders and upper back as knotted as if he hadn't slept at all. The way dreams go sometimes upon waking, it had faded instantly as if it had never been there, but Carlton had still felt the bad mood like an ache at the base of his skull, and wondered, though not too much, why his jaw was so tight as if he had clenched his teeth all night long.

He remembered now.

Juliet sighed, repeating his name with a more formal undercurrent of exasperation, but Lassiter remained unmoving, more quickly blotting the sweat from his forehead and cheeks than he had previously given care to moping up the coffee. The scent wafting from her was the unmistakable fragrance of peaches, just light enough to be pleasant when the two were in close proximity— while, now, he feared, the scent may haunt him for a while. Lassiter worked hard to concoct a plan— the reason he was blushing? The reason why he couldn't stop? It was— the spilled coffee, and the embarrassing fall—_ yes, yes, _he reasoned, _this was completely plausible. _

Lassiter turned towards her slowly, cursing himself for the semi-idiotic grin he had plastered on his mouth— involuntarily. He fought with his lips until they skewed, in a compromise, into a nearly amused frown. Of course, this memory _had_ to resurface now, when he was already flustered and had already made enough of an ass of himself in front of her. _What are you doing? _he chided himself harshly. _It was just a stupid dream. It was not a prophecy that you and O'Hara— _

"Are you all right?" Juliet asked, a mild concern replacing the frustration that he was the reason they were late for the meeting in Vick's office. "Is that blood on your face?" Was he imaging it, or did she ask her questions in a smoky voice? _Get a grip!_ he screamed at himself. _She's your partner— she's not— it's not like with Lucinda— just a dream— a very bad, inappropriate dream—_

"What was an inappropriate dream?" O'Hara repeated, her eyebrows raising in question.

Lassiter could only thank a number of unknown sources that there was no amusement in her tone, and cursed himself again for letting his idiocy show. "Nothing," he finally stammered. "We should get on to that meeting?" Lassiter took a step forward, inadvertently brushing his arm against hers. He squeezed his eyes shut and then quickened his pace. It wasn't fair; she had waited for him, but he called over his shoulder, "Meet you in there!"

"What about your hand?" Juliet called back. "It doesn't look so good—"

At her words, the burn throbbed, but he ignored it, and clenched his fist. "It's fine," he grumbled, hearing her step behind him. He bit his lip hard to keep from barking out why she thought she had to walk so close? It was her usual way and if he challenged it so suddenly into their partnership, she was going to ask questions— and he'd only have embarrassing answers to give. He tensed further and lessened his speed walk so she could catch up and pretended her presence wasn't bothering him. He wiped away another layer of sweat that had beaded on his upper lip as they made it to Vick's door.

* * *

Carlton flung Vick's door open hard enough to rattle the glass in the frame. He was, at the back of his mind, surprised that the glass didn't crack or shatter— from the way this day was going—

"Detective Lassiter! Where do you think you're going?"

Lassiter gritted his teeth hard, and hunched his shoulders as if against a cold wind at his back, but he didn't pause. Thirty five minutes of inner-departmental harassment— that's what he should have braced himself for, going into this meeting. If only he had known. He should have— thirty five minutes of near stunned silence from himself, his partner, and even the Chief while two Internal Affairs officers chastised and threatened him— him, about his recent "excessive use" of his firearms, among other things. Of course, he had tried, on several occasions during this witch hunt to protest and defend himself, but they had continued their obviously prepared speech without letting him get a single word in edgewise. He had had no choice but to stand there and take it, but when they started in on the petty— the mussed up appearance of his clothes, he had about lost it.

"Detective, we are not finished!"

Perhaps storming out this way made him look like a spoiled child who had, up until this point, been used to getting his way, but Lassiter didn't, in that moment, care. He headed for a restroom, the visit long overdue, and ran his still throbbing burn under a cold stream of water. He didn't dare look at his expression in the mirror because he figured the murderous rage he felt to his core may even unnerve himself a little. Instead, he looked down at the sink and forced himself to take in deep, steadying breaths. He couldn't quite force the word "calm" in between "deep" and "steadying" yet, so he decided he would take what he could get. If they chose, at least one of the Internal Affairs agents could come in here, but for a few seconds, Lassiter wallowed in the fact that Vick, O'Hara and other Internal Affairs officer would likely not check in on him in the men's bathroom.

He hated to admit it, even to himself, but O'Hara had been very good these past years about reigning him in with her no nonsense attitude. He speculated that he had rubbed off on her because her demeanor had lost some of its sweetness for the respectable edge she now possessed. But he couldn't, not during this horrible day, lean on her or vent his frustrations because he was still too hung up on that stupid dream that was making him feel a little _too_ close to her. _Stop acting like an ass,_ Lassiter chided himself. He figured if he expressed these silly insecurities to O'Hara, she might just wrinkle up her nose and remind him that their relationship was platonic and professional. Carlton found himself slightly relieved at this imagined repulsion of O'Hara's. He sighed, turned off the faucet, and straightened, catching a glimpse of his sea-blue eyes, which seemed awash with a coming storm. He noticed, for the first time, a small cut on his jaw line close to his right ear. That was new— he hadn't gotten that one from shaving. It must have happened earlier, during the fall. Funny, because he couldn't remember how he could have cut himself. The wound had dried, but the blemish was obvious. He fingered it; it didn't hurt.

Lassiter sighed. He knew he had to suck this up, and go back out there, and likely listen to another hour of his character assassination— but he had no choice. He tried to concoct a polite, non smart ass apology on his way back towards Vick's office. _What if they take your badge for this?_ a nasty voice stabbed at the back of his brain. _Then how will you take out your frustrations on the range?_

The fear of losing control gave him pause, long enough for him to see Shawn Spencer and Burton Guster exiting Vick's office, Spencer wearing a huge grin on his stubbled face.

"Spencer, what the hell are you doing?" Lassiter demanded, his mouth pulling tight into a frown. He didn't have time to form the thoughts as to what, exactly, Spencer may have been doing before Spencer caught him off guard with a slap to the stomach. Lassiter jumped, his eyebrows knitting together with a rage that manifested as a tic on the left side of his face, at his jaw and above his eyebrow.

He was ready to yank his gun from its holster and read Spencer his rights for "assaulting" a police office when Spencer mumbled, "Don't worry, Lassie-Face, I've got your back."

Lassiter was more than ready to wipe that smug grin off of Spencer's face with the barrel of his weapon, and even had his fingers wrapped around the base and trigger when he remembered why Internal Affairs was here. Begrudgingly, Lassiter released the weapon and tugged his jacket around his holster just to give his hands something to do other than make a fist or encircle Spencer's neck.

Guster inhaled, then shot a look at Shawn. He was keeping tabs on Lassiter through the corner of his eye, more able to pick up that Lassiter's mood was little more than fury under a thin veil. Shawn didn't seem to get Gus's hint to move this along, so Gus cleared his throat.

"Buddy," Shawn said with a lopsided grin. He dug around in his pocket and then handed Gus a small yellow and green wrapped object. "It's pineapple flavor."

Lassiter saw what it was and growled, muttering something nearly inaudible under his breath, something about murder.

Guster sighed, rolled his eyes, and pocketed the cough drop. He worked very hard to keep his eyes from Lassiter's face, focusing instead on his hair line before nodding towards an area in back of Lassiter's right shoulder. "I'll be over there, Shawn."

Shawn reached out, trying to halt Gus's leave by ensnaring his elbow. Gus wriggled out and smacked Shawn's hand, shooting him a look Lassiter had observed Guster give Spencer a hundred times or more. A thousand? Lassiter shook his head hard; whenever Spencer was around, it seemed that any rational thought processes automatically took a nose dive. He was even more furious for letting himself get sucked in.

"Spencer?" Lassiter repeated through clenched teeth, worried that if he opened his mouth all the way, the faker's name would be a loud bark certain to attract the attention of anyone still in Vick's office.

"It's fine, Lassie," Shawn continued pleasantly, easily ignoring Lassiter's anger. "I just told them what the spirits told me." His smile faltered slightly at Lassiter's expression, which was quickly changing the detective's face a light shade of maroon. "They told me—"

"I _do not need you_ to fight my battles for me," Lassiter snapped. "Stay out of my business."

"I can't do that," Shawn said, still managing to hang onto his smile. Shawn could make out Gus gesticulating frantically as if he were the psychic one now. Shawn shook his head as if this wasn't any big deal. "Lassie—"

"What kind of lies did you tell them?" Lassiter demanded, extending his long pointer finger to jab at Shawn's chest. Spencer fumbled backwards a little, his mouth flattening out.

"Lass—"

Before he was fully aware of what he was doing, Lassiter had his right hand closing around Spencer's shoulder, squeezing so hard that his earlier burn screamed as if he had torn skin. He released Shawn's shoulder just as quickly, but not before Spencer yelped, all amusement gone from his voice. A look of hurt crossed Spencer's eyes; Lassiter knew immediately it wasn't because of any physical pain. It flashed and disappeared, and then Shawn said flatly, "The spirits gave you a pass." He took two large side steps that got him out of range should Lassiter try to manhandle him again and then walked towards Gus without another word.

Lassiter sighed; usually any Spencer sendoffs left him filled with an unnatural glee; of course, not today. There was the smallest twinge of remorse in place of the glee; he almost turned, not sure for what, because he wasn't about to apologize for Spencer's own daily idiocy, but he managed to steel himself in place. There wasn't anything to say.

Instead, he took in half a breath and went towards Vick's office, the door still open. As soon as he was in the door frame, he caught the stony faces of the four people he had stormed out on a few minutes before. Lassiter wondered how much of the exchange with Spencer they may have overheard. He sighed under his breath, and started to part his lips when Vick spoke. "Detective, come in and close the door," she said icily.


	2. Chapter 1: Everybody Wears A Mask

**Chapter One: Painted Faces, Everybody Wears A Mask**

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Disclaimer: I do not own Splenda, Bowie knives, Old West Cologne for Men, and I credit http://www dot amberattic dot com for the information about vintage hat pins.

Mild spoilers for/ references to Season One's _The Pilot_, _Spellingg Bee_, _Scary Sherry: Bianca's Toast_, and Season Two's _There's Something About Mira_ and _The Old and the Restless_.

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* * *

A reprimand, that was all he had been forced to suffer. That, and the angry, burning eyes of two of his colleagues. O'Hara had, at least, made an effort to be polite, but it still made him uncomfortable. He absentmindedly fingered his badge and felt relief at the usual weight of the gun in his shoulder holster as she spoke. Though he had been warned, repeatedly, that mandatory anger management classes were in his future should he continue on this same road. Lassiter had scoffed to himself. He could handle that crap, no problem, should he be required.

As he sat at his desk, his eyes glued to some scrawlings on the paper in front of him, Lassiter's mind wandered unwillingly to what exactly Spencer may have said to the IA agents to get them to back down. Or maybe . . . maybe they had come here to yell at him only . . . ? Lassiter pressed his lips together. _Why make the trip just for that?_ He grumbled, not wanting to think too much about another reason they could be here. He had the urge to trawl the station, demanding which of the officers, detectives and other personnel may have filed a complaint against him, either for personal reasons or as a witness to his treatment of any suspect— an urge he had to repeatedly talk himself out of.

Carlton sighed. Ever since the incident with Goochberg, he thought he had been working to become more personable, forcing out friendly greetings to his fellow officers rather than frowning with an angry grunt at anyone who dared speak to him. He had even made the effort to speak first— even when he wasn't barking out orders. Had he forgotten about these efforts? Got bored of trying? Before he was clued in, he had thought he had been doing all right— but it still shocked him, even reminding himself of it, that the whole of the Santa Barbara Police Department really viewed him as a "perfect match" to Goochberg's personality. Yes, it still made him shudder. He sighed again. Dammit, back to focusing on that touchy-feely "be nice" crap.

_Wasn't "being nice" overrated?_ he thought with an inner snarl. After all, he didn't make Head Detective by "being nice". He got it by being an aggressive, determined hard worker (and sometimes a son-of-a-bitch) who shunned sleep and developed the most unhealthy relationship with coffee possible. He got it by busting criminals and closing his cases, with a natural charisma in front of the media and a scripted humility whenever a situation called for it. Along the way he'd fed and fueled his ego, becoming selfish and snappish— _oh,_ a little voice resembling O'Hara's made him pause. _It was this kind of innerward thinking,_ "she" pointed out patiently, _that had got you in trouble in the first place_— that had made his coworkers and insubordinates view him as insufferable— but still with a begrudging respect.

Not that anyone who may have been watching him would even notice the change in his face, but he felt his frown dip. Lassiter wanted to be— because of O'Hara's influence (his frown even deeper at that thought)— somewhere in the middle of being respected but still having buddies on the force he could turn to and— have these buddies who would want to and could turn to _him_, for golf or just to commiserate life over a few beers. It was such a precarious balance, really. He paused again, feeling another redux of O'Hara's mentality sneak up on him. She insisted that a person could be all the rough stuff he'd thought of (on the inside too, where it didn't show) and still be nice, sensitive, thoughtful, polite, mindful and respectful of others.

For her tougher parts, he still considered her a softie at heart.

Not that he would ever admit it to O'Hara, or even completely to himself, but there was the tiniest part of his psyche that knew O'Hara's sweetness had rubbed off on him; maybe that had been the trade of their complimenting partnership. It seemed a distant memory of someone else's life of accepting the few hugs O'Hara ever offered; at least he didn't suffer those memories with unpleasantness, but it was too hard to connect even remotely with sweetness today, not the pure stuff or even the chemical tasting Splenda-esque stuff. Carlton groaned, leaning forward to rest his face in his hands. His headache had expanded, taking over his entire face and neck. Maybe a couple aspirin would do him good.

He pulled open the bottom drawer to his left, fishing his hand blindly for the bottle. His hand had just closed around it when he heard the approach of footsteps, women's shoes, by the clack against the tile. Lassiter didn't look up, wondering if he could manage to get himself water from the cooler down the hall without spilling the whole cup on the front of his pants.

"Carlton."

He winced at her voice, working to suppress an annoyed hiss. Couldn't she just give him a little time to himself? She took a few steps towards his desk, the fragrance of peach wafting from her. He winced again, but heard himself asking, "Peaches, again?"

Juliet straightened, absentmindedly running a hand across her neatly done up bun. "Apricots, actually," she corrected, the question of why in her voice. He still hadn't looked up. "Detective, are you blushing?"

"No," he lied. Forcing himself to address her, he demanded— catching his tone mid breath, working to keep most of the irritation from his voice— if there was something she needed. Luckily, she was used to his manner, and likely wrote off his disagreeableness as leftover venom from their earlier shouting match— er, meeting, with Internal Affairs. (He couldn't lie that that was partly the reason. Neither his partner nor Vick had once open their mouths to defend him— at least, not before he'd stormed out. He could understand the reasoning why after he'd forced himself to return, but before? Did their silence suggest that they _agreed_ with these agents?) Lassiter sighed, unable to settle over which emotion was most annoying or hurtful when it came to that train of thought.

"We might have a lead on that King of Hearts killer's whereabouts," she said. She shifted her weight, elaborating that it was sketchy at best, but worth a shot. They were dealing with a serial killer and it was best to get him— or her— locked up away from the general public sooner than later.

Though police didn't yet know his name, this unknown carved up his victims' faces with a hunting knife before delivering that final stab to directly through their hearts. He placed a vintage king of hearts playing card over the victim's chest, face up, and then impaled, severing the two halves of the kings each time— with the one, deep stab it took to kill. The cards were held in place, over the lifeless heart, with a silver stemmed old style hat pin, its red teardrop piercing the card upside-down, sticking through the victims' blood soaked shirts or jackets. The murder weapons had yet to be found, but CSU had so far discovered the same type of knife— if not the absolute same knife— was used to kill all of the victims. They had determined it to be a Bowie with a heavy and durable quarter of an inch blade, the blade itself measuring nearly 6 mm.

The latest victim was discovered in a Dumpster outside of the restaurant where she worked as a part-time hostess. (They hadn't known she was missing until her first missed shift two days later.) Blond, pretty, just seventeen, she had been a runaway from LA, with big plans of hitchhiking her way to New York City— this, at least, according to what she had told the few friends she'd made. A few newbies on a routine sweep had discovered her, one of them puking right away at the sight. She was no longer pretty— her pale, freckled skin was bloated, tinted an ashy green, her small heart shaped face scarred up in death, not one feature or inch left unsliced. Cuts also up and down her arms and legs, her soles and palms scrapped raw. And some of her hair was missing, a chunk large enough to braid. Just like other three. They weren't all missing hair, but something had been taken from each, other than their lives.

The murders had started almost a month ago; there was still little known about this killer yet. They were still doing research to find if something similar had occurred before, in other cities or states— was this a person on the move? Did he like to take his time in selection, was there a reason he chose both men and women of different ethnicities, ages, classes? Or were they random targets, in the wrong place at the wrong time? The killer had left no physical evidence that their CSUs had been able to scout out— and these were highly trained people.

He, O'Hara, and their forensics team had exhausted the rest of the clues so far, regarding the killer's choice of accessories. All of these severed cards bore the faintest traces of Old West Cologne for Men, but there had never been any transferred to the victims' clothing. "It must be," O'Hara had commented, "only the cards' cologne." The cologne was a common scent, easily available in department stores and online.

The "calling cards" were older, true, but their source had been harder to trace back. They had no identifying markings, such as an artist's signature, and seemed to be the from a standard deck, just ten or twenty years older.

They were also still tracing these identical vintage hat pins, circa 1940s, at 15 cm in length each. They had discovered, through research, that the hat pins dated back to the 1940s due to the length, which was much shorter than those of the Victorian era. During Victorian times, big hats were the trend and required pins of at least 20 cm, but this craze had faded by the 1920s. The one thing about these pins was that, according to their available information, most hat pins of these years were more ornamental, but the red teardrop was simplistic. They had yet to narrow down the search of where one could get one of these, since none of the pins bore any kind of serial number or signature design, much like the cards. The pins could be authentic, picked up anywhere at an antique shop or a flea market for a wad of cash with no identity— it could have happened out of state.

Vick had suggested they enlist a profiler, despite knowing little about the killer himself— but that never seemed to matter. After all, the profiler was less interested in the killer as person but more as killer's habits— thus determining from acts of violence or extreme detail exactly what kind of person this killer was. Lassiter knew these profilers were necessary and important, but he still wondered, at the back of his mind, why a person would choose a life as a criminal profiler— getting _that close_ into a killer's mind— he shook his head, even now, not catching O'Hara's quizzical look at his action. Profilers disturbed him, but if they could help find this bastard, then he wasn't about to open his mouth about it.

_Great, a distraction from my sad life, _he thought now_._ Lassiter pushed back his chair, laying his hands on his desk to stand, when O'Hara mentioned the tip was an anonymous one come into the hotline. Carlton's jaw tightened. The last ninety six tips about this killer's so-called whereabouts had been bogus; sightings as infamous as Elvis now that Santa Barbara's citizens had been made aware of the killer's presence.

"I know what you're thinking," O'Hara began, sometimes more able to read him than he liked to admit. "What if this is another wild goose chase?"

"A damn waste of man power," Lassiter cut in, standing. He remained frozen, staring at her from across the desk. "We're detectives— we have real cases to solve." The two of them had checked out several of the more promising tips themselves, and had been questioning everyone the victims' had known for details about how the deceased had lived, where they worked, ate, hobbies or hangouts, the types of people they befriended, their personalities, did they made friends or enemies easily? Were they in financial trouble? Did they have a bad habit of trusting the wrong people? So far, they hadn't gotten much of anything from these questionings, and what they had followed up on seemed to run cold pretty quickly. So they had been forced into high jumps at these flurry of tips to the hotline— which were either mistaken sightings or bogus to begin with; after all, this killer so far had an invisible face, and had everyone jumping and clutching at their hearts as if they had seen a ghost— when no one was there at all. These falsities only made his and O'Hara's job more frustrating; and there was an intense pressure from Chief Vick to work harder for a lead, any lead at all.

Juliet's hands attached to her hips. "This is a real case, Detective."

He sighed. "That's true, but these tips are just a waste of our time." They were both thinking, though neither muttered a word of it aloud, that these stinking tips were all they had to go on.

Even Santa Barbara's "renowned" Psychic Detective had been so far unsuccessful in garnering any extra "spiritual" help for them, though Lassiter had heard Spencer muttering something to Guster on the way out about how it seemed the hearts on the playing cards were more angled or slanted than rounded, but Spencer certainly hadn't voiced this observation to Vick. It made had Lassiter study the cards a little more closely, something he did begrudgingly and with a scowl across his lips, but he was still hard pressed to see what the hell Spencer could have been talking about.

Lassiter rolled his eyes at these memories, though he'd relished the look of sweaty dis-ease on Spencer's face when he'd finally mumbled to Vick that ÒspiritsÓ had nothing helpful to say at the moment. Lassiter had definitely enjoyed (meanly) watching Spencer retreat like a dog with his tail between his legs. He had hoped that Spencer would have been too shamed to return; he sighed again. _If this were a perfect world. . . . _

Juliet took a step closer to the desk, crossing her arms across her chest. "Do you want to be the one to tell the Chief that we were handed a possible lead but _you_, as _Head Detective_, dismissed it? And what if it turns out to be the one we've been looking for—"

She had actually possessed the ability to make his skin turn green. Lassiter cringed on the inside; he knew she knew exactly what she was doing— but he wasn't about to give her the satisfaction and rise up to that bait. He actually thought it very cold of her to use the IA meeting as fuel; had she been _this_ disappointed in him for his childish behavior? (Though, he reflected, _he_ would probably think _nothing_ of her statements had they been coming out of his mouth, directed at her.) He knew she respected him, but she knew exactly how to put him back in his place if his power trips ever got too out of hand— he had taught her very well by example. Or at the very least, she pushed just as hard back as he was pushing at her, even if he was too drunk with ego to be forced back completely into his role. O'Hara no longer accepted an unfair reprimand from him without demanding an appropriate explanation— part of him appreciated it, her rising to his challenges. It kept him sharp, on his toes. His opinion of her had definitely changed since when she was first transferred from Miami and assigned as his new partner.

Today, he was not in the mood and seemed to possess an inexplicable ability for pissing everyone off. Or was this everyday? When an unwelcome image of Goochberg in high heels and an ill fitting animal print chasing that straggly store clerk struck him, he forced himself to bite his lip until he tasted blood. After all, the woman in front of him may be his very last ally— even if, in this moment, they weren't about to see eye to eye.

* * *

She had been too persuasive, or maybe it was just that he'd acquiesced much too easily. For easiest truth, they wanted to catch this killer before he performed any more of his grisly acts. The first victim, a burly businessman with sunken in eyes, had been cut to ribbons in his three piece suit. He'd been left in a public place, under a park bench, with the king of hearts card severed over his pierced heart. Horrifying and gruesome, it bore the markings of ritual, but of what, they couldn't yet tell. They had hoped that it was a singular act, and that there were no more bodies to follow.

Lassiter knew he had been persuasive too, otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to _almost_ talk O'Hara out of accompanying in to check out this so-called lead. He'd listed off on both hands, twice, the ghosts they'd already chased, or what "suspicious persons" they'd found on these treks in search of a murderer. The tips came in all over Santa Barbara, even at town lines; they'd been running on and on for absolutely nothing. And the killer was still on the loose.

A cat had been the latest "suspect", a possibly rabid thing with one eye and a mangled front leg. It had hissed at them from the boarded up window of a second story house. Before that, a howling wind in hollow knots of some trees, a Goth pizza delivery boy who'd gotten lost in an unfamiliar neighborhood, a door without a lock slamming on its hinges, a housewife buying a pack of playing cards at a bookstore for a dinner party.

"We don't know the killer's identity, what he looks like— what else do we have to go on?" O'Hara had reminded him unnecessarily. "The public is scared— it makes sense they'd—"

"Waste our time at every turn?" Lassiter snapped. "Don't you remember the—"

O'Hara held up her palm. "Yes, I do. But at least we got a loose boa constrictor off the streets. It could have easily devoured a child."

"That is not a job for homicide detectives, O'Hara."

Juliet rolled her eyes and huffed. "He's been meticulous, clean. How can he not leave a single trace of DNA? An eyelash or a piece of hair? Or a scrape of fabric? None of the victims have any defensive wounds— no trace of of blood or skin of someone else on their bodies."

"He's seasoned, must be. Knows his trade. The way he arranges the bodies, even this latest in the Dumpster, pins the playing card to clothes, right over the heart suggests that he wants them to be found, wants his crime known," Lassiter said. He sighed. "Except he wants to remain anonymous. But even if we had DNA or scrapes, if there was nothing on file—"

Juliet nodded. Was he local or a drifter? Was he a career criminal or were these his first acts of horror to date? It was frustrating for both of them, not only knowing this man was out there somewhere still, probably following his next victim and making plans, but having nothing to offer to the victims' families who were grieving and demanding answers. And nothing for the public either, or the media, who loved to invent news on a slow day.

They were in the middle of this discussion when Vick appeared, her face lined and serious. She had just got off the phone with the mayor, she said, who was putting the utmost pressure on her to get information on this serial killer— "Before he kills again, Detectives."

Lassiter had been thinking since the moment she appeared in his office that his Chief was some kind of traitor to him— what could the reason be she hadn't defended him earlier? He had mulled it over and thought he had let it go— but it was hard for him to not hold a grudge. Perhaps this was a reason he tried to call her on it— but he should have known better than to use a wanted murderer in the mix. "How do you purpose we do that, Chief? Should I pull my gun on random civilians until one of them cracks?" He wasn't sure how he'd meant it, but it couldn't have been more than a sarcastic joke in his head.

Vick's face turned red. "Detective O'Hara," she directed through ground teeth, "please leave this office immediately."

"Yes, Chief," O'Hara said. On the way out, she had the decency to shoot him some sympathy with a roll of her eyes. Great, if he survived this, O'Hara was going to give him a big piece of her mind too.

As soon as Juliet was out the door, Carlton made a plea to save himself. "I'm just an idiot, I didn't mean that garbage, Chief. I let my stress get out of hand." She didn't speak, but her the color on her face continued to deepen. He plowed on, explaining their— his and O'Hara's— frustrations at having so little to go on, but certainly doing everything in their power to get leads and follow up. There was, though he didn't voice this, only so much he could wonder about the usage of these hat pins. "I want this bastard rotting in a cell as much as you do— as much as the mayor does," he continued, slightly aware he was rambling. Any second, he excepted her to explode with rage that could throw his back up against the wall, but strangely, she seemed appeased by his speech. "Actually, there might be a lead that I was just made aware of." He cleared his throat. "I was just planning to go check up on it."

Vick nodded, releasing her breath. "Carlton— you are an idiot."

Lassiter tensed, waiting for a torrent, but Vick only studied him. There was no way he could ask now why she had held her tongue— this may be the reason she saw as "why".

The Chief sighed. "But you're still the damn best we've got— no matter what IA wants to complain about."

_Oh._ He cleared his throat. "O'Hara."

Vick raised an eyebrow. "What about her, Detective?"

He stammered on. "O'Hara is among the best—"

Vick's face nearly relaxed. "Why the hell do you think she was partnered with you?" She shook her head, seemingly reveling in the fact Lassiter had admitted to idiocy. Or the fact that he was fishing for compliments about his partner. "Besides, she's a good match. Keeps you in line sometimes, doesn't she?"

Vick held his eyes until he was forced to nod. He missed her small smile when he looked away. "Now, I need you two to go out there and bring in this killer." Lassiter nodded again, this time missing Vick turning on her heel to leave his office.

He felt stupid— a part of him cringed that Vick had noticed some of the things he had been thinking about earlier. Not that he was feeling like less of a man now, but he was itching all of a sudden for something to redeem himself— though he really had to prove nothing to these two women. They knew what kind of man he was and were behind him— he knew this, but it was barely noon and he felt that in only a couple of hours, had nearly undone any kind of professional relationship he had with either of them. What had he been thinking, making unfeeling jokes while a psycho-killer was on the loose? Looking over his bad luck and various reactions to all of it, he got a stab of shame. He had tried to discredit O'Hara twice— the first time by insisting this latest tip was a fake before they'd even checked it out. Then, he'd done it a second time just now with Vick, by telling her the lead had come to him and it had been his idea to follow up.

Lassiter sighed. He was never going to be the perfect man, especially when it came to women's feelings. Then the best he could do to make up for it was— check out this tip on his own. Spare O'Hara a drive out to nowhere, when she could be making a difference or putting evidence together for another case they were close to solving. He picked up the notes she had left on his desk about the location, folding them together and putting them in his pants pocket. Then he grabbed his jacket off the back of his desk chair. This shouldn't take too long; when he returned, he could poke fun at her for the nothing he'd found out there, when she had been so determined they would bring back something. Or maybe if something was out there, he could give O'Hara the credit in front of the Chief— sometimes he really owed O'Hara more than he cared to admit even to himself. He liked her— just as friends and partners, though.

This was another good reason he should make an effort to befriend some more male colleagues. He could start with McNab— Lassiter slowly shook his head. There had to be someone else; but the kid did at least look up to him. Maybe it wouldn't be _so_ bad starting with someone who actually liked him? Okay, he was resolved to try. Maybe after duty it wouldn't be so bad to grab a beer— or scotch, from the way this day was. He thought it over on his way out of the station to his car, debating whether or not he could ask O'Hara for some kind of advice on talking to the rookie— he sighed. Sometimes he wondered if he was really cut out for this socializing life. It gave him awe that it seemed to come so naturally to O'Hara.

As soon as he was outside, the acridness of a coming storm hit his nostrils. He glanced up once, but the sky was still blue. Some clouds, with the faintest touch of gray, were rolling in.

* * *

"Where's Detective Lassiter?" Vick asked about thirty-five minutes later. Juliet looked up from some case file she was going over with surprise. She had thought that he was still getting his ear chewed off by Vick, but here she was, and her partner was not with her.

"I don't know, Chief."

Vick shook her head. "Never mind about that supposed sighting, at least for now."

Juliet picked up on Vick's tone. She stood, reaching into a drawer for her purse and an extra clip of ammo. "What's happened?"

"There's a report of another body, playing cards and all. It's started to rain, and we need to get there quickly to preserve any evidence. CSU is already on their way."

Juliet nodded. She had no idea where Lassiter was; he hadn't said a word to her about going anywhere, and she hadn't seen him since leaving him with Vick, a "don't-leave-me-here-with-her" look playing in his eyes. Juliet appreciated that her partner had come to trust that much, that he could offer her that kind of vulnerable look without being worried about her teasing him about being less manly. She had never done that once, opting since the beginning to learn from her superior, but never failing to call him out on something she felt he wasn't doing "by-the-book."

When Vick left to gather some officers, Juliet called Carlton's cell phone. It rang its customary eight rings before going directly to voice mail. _Hmm, that was puzzling._ She hoped that Lassiter wasn't off some place sulking— that whatever had transpired between him and Vick hadn't left him feeling the need to cross his legs. There was nothing she could do about it, Juliet thought, but she recognized her partner needed to occasional ego boost and reassurance that he still was the knight in shining armor type to many. He took her praise with grunts; if she hadn't known him so well, she might have given up these exercises a long time ago. As she was calling again, Vick appeared in her line of sight and waved her forward. She left him a message of where they would be and that another King of Hearts victim had been discovered. She also told him to hurry and that he was needed— because she had no idea what battered shape his ego might be in. Sometimes he just needed her to remind him how good he was at his job, or if he didn't need her to do it, she felt that it was in her job description to do so. Sometimes, it even brought out his smile, for which she was usually grateful to see.

* * *

Twenty minutes after leaving the station, Lassiter pulled up next to a sidewalk near Samarkand and stared out the passenger window, trying to determine which, in the apparent maze of pathways to buildings beyond him, was the one he wanted. He dug in his pocket for O'Hara's notes.

_Two reports had come in within a day of each other of suspicious activity at this location,_ she had written. The address given was a jumble of words and numbers— taking another gaze out the window told him why. Lassiter sighed, and went back to looking at her note. This was the right cross section of streets, West Trail and Beach Lane, though, in his opinion, he seemed furthest from any roads even connecting to a beach, let alone the west side of the city. From this distance, it was hard to tell what these cluster of buildings even were. They were all the same shape and seemed to be that antique yellow sand color of Stucco and designed in the Spanish style of many lavish Santa Barbara homes, though, even from here, the buildings looked dusty. Lassiter peered at the address again, then the street signs. This was the right place. It wasn't clear if these were offices or apartments, or even separate sections to one house— or if they were even occupied. Lassiter grabbed his radio but once it was to his mouth he wasn't sure what to say. He glanced down again, reading. There was a report of a man, possibly, seen going into one of these buildings. The other tip was vague, stating that this area of buildings gave off a "creepy" air. Lassiter rolled his eyes. _This_ was really what he was wasting his time on? The buildings did had a mesmerizing quality; without thinking, he put the mouthpiece to the radio back on its cradle without turning it on or speaking into it.

After a few beats, Lassiter blinked and took his gaze from the cluster. He glanced at his radio, truly wondering if he'd radioed in his location. How long could this chore really take? A few minutes? Maybe ten at the most for him to discover nothing and then leave. He was in no hurry to return to the station though— there was a slight chance Vick would either order him shot upon sight if he returned without any information or have him put under arrest, simply for being the biggest jackass a man could be. _Goddammit._ At this rate, Lassiter was making Spencer look not only like a well adjusted adult but also a gentleman. Lassiter considered calling O'Hara, but then remembered he had jotted over here without her knowledge— and she had been the one so adamant to check this out. He opted for a text message, keeping it short, putting in the address where he was, that he was checking out the tip, hoping she'd know what KOHK meant, and that he'd be back soon. He added a little something about her doing good work so he could soften her anger for his return.

The fine mist he'd driven over here in had quickly lost its charm, the coming storm changing a blue sky overcast— and the true rain hadn't started long after that, as soon as he'd been out of his car about five minutes.

* * *

Lassiter grumbled nothing too mild as he shifted through the rain, which was pouring its fat drops in an endless river onto his head. With nothing to shield him, he was soaked, his clothes and hair dripping equally fat drops of water. O'Hara, who was not present since he'd talked her out of coming— almost, but then he'd left without her anyway— had heard him swear before, but all of this might make even her blush. Or she would tell him to knock it off— one way or another, had she been there, he may have held his tongue. A small part of him— more of this he'd attributed to her personality integrating the slightest with his— regarded her snaps or overt politeness towards his moods, depending on the moment, whether to show off her uncomfortableness or be just as aggressive as he— with a welcoming warmth. A part of him was coming to see her as his equal, at the very least, when it came to being his partner on the force. She had proved herself as good at her duty, charging, on a mission, as he had felt he had been at her age.

_Dammit._ Her presence in his life was causing him to change— _though,_ he amended, _this wasn't such a bad thing._ Maybe, by way of her influence, the next woman he met and married he would actually know how to treat the right way— otherwise, his partner might have something to say about it. For the first time all day, he allowed himself an ironic smile; he had always thought that in their police partnership, _he_ would have the most wisdom to offer.

His envy of O'Hara, he realized, traced a little further back before he'd found out her score on the DET exam. Though he had tried to think little of her from the beginning— at first, she was only a cardboard replacement for Lucinda— it wasn't easy to ignore his growing respect for her and the way she seemed to immediately put everyone around her at ease— except for him of course. He recalled thinking of her as a child when she haughtily told him she did not approve of inner-departmental relationships (their partnership then had been much too fresh and he had been too stuffy still) and then recalled with chagrin how he told the mayor's punk son, right in front of her, of all of her good work ethic and determinedness, but how she was "not hot". Maybe it had taken a while for him to become more sensitive; after all, it wasn't as if he'd any role models in his life growing up who could have taught that a real man could possess some sensitivities, especially when it came to regarding women positively. (His mother had the best qualities of sandpaper or steel wool, after all.)

Not just because of his dream— which he wished would have already dissolved— he realized he recognized O'Hara's attractiveness, but also knew wholeheartedly that he was not attracted to her. With Lucinda, their attraction had just happened, but not out of the blue. If anything, he and Lucinda had not been friends, only lovers. But O'Hara was the most platonic he had ever been with a woman, especially one who was his partner. Because of their developing friendship, he had found himself more and more able to trust her— with his life. He was slightly ashamed he had been so quick to dismiss her during the first year of their partnership.

Not that O'Hara hadn't, in subtle ways, try to draw him out of his grumpiness, and had succeeded with victory! time and time again. (He could almost picture her smile while he cursed under his breath.) Though he was more than capable of handling situations alone, it was strange to be on an errand such as this without her— he had become so accustomed to her presence that without her, it was almost the sensation of a phantom limb. Lassiter gritted his teeth; all this, she could never know. It would be such a blow to his reputation.

* * *

Juliet tried her partner again upon arriving on the scene, glancing quickly at the cut, red lines in the woman's— dead body's— face and arms, calves, knees and shins, and on the sole of one foot. Her other foot was covered by a teal flip flop, arranged neatly back on her foot, it seemed, by whomever had brought her here. The other shoe was missing; Juliet couldn't see it anywhere around the body.

She got Lassiter's voice mail again, and closed the phone, thinking vaguely, _Goddammit, Carlton, where are you? _She stepped onto the sand, easily undertaking the role of her partner's charge, calling out for any information.

* * *

Lassiter's errand of a mere few minutes had already turned into fourteen, well, almost— fifteen, he saw now, glancing down at the water dripping from his watch face. He sighed with disgust; he hadn't even made it close enough to the buildings to determine which one the tip had specified— if there had even been a specification made. He still had Juliet's notes, but he couldn't take them out of his pocket because they would be ruined in the same second it took him to glance down at the paper.

Lassiter, holding the cell phone out in front of him, grumbled again that he wasn't getting a signal. He was starting to think that he hadn't made a connection with the station; was the reason he hadn't got a response from O'Hara because she was pissed or that she hadn't received his message? He made a face, trying to banish this sudden, strange want for her acceptance with gruff. He could handle this alone— one stupid tip. Okay, two, two stupid tips— all he had to do was get through the storm. Much as the look of the buildings from the street had a leering, lulling effect, following these straight concrete pathways— still maze-like though— gave off a luring effect, as if they were the hook and he, the prey, was searching out some invisible bait. Lassiter actually stopped, uncaring for a moment of the falling rain. Why had he thought about it like that?

There was, in a cop's life, no shame in calling for backup, and it was damn stupid to enter a situation that didn't "feel right" alone. There were times when there was no choice, but this wasn't yet one of those situations. He turned on the descending ramp, trying to make out which direction he had come from. He couldn't even see his car from here; _dammit_. _All right, just need to find some shelter, then I can wait for O'Hara,_ Lassiter thought. He couldn't explain why he felt on edge— nervous, almost, as if he were some kind of rookie. _Okay, it wasn't that bad. Right? _

Lassiter held his arm above his head, attempting to shield his eyes so he could see ahead of him. He continued to follow the path. After a couple of minutes, he could make out a couple of tall trees in the middle of a courtyard, their long thick branches stretched out like arms sprouting leaves of emerald. Though standing under a tree in a storm wasn't a smart idea, there was the smallest chance he may be able to pick up a signal enough to get O'Hara on the line. He picked way across the paths, moving diagonally and no longer trying to follow the line to the buildings. The paths reminded of those winding ones at amusement parks for rides, or at the airport or the bank— chains or dividers easily bypassed when there weren't people filling up those spaces. He couldn't understand a design such as that for these pathways, as if the buildings were some kind of funhouse and this was the prelude.

Lassiter shook his head hard, not just to get the rain water out of his ears but to rid his mind of these equally twisting thoughts— at this rate, he would rather go back to mulling over his partner. Thunder crashed overhead, then a spike of yellow light shot across the gray sky. Another crash partially masked a crack, then a creaking of something old. He didn't think anything of it— until he saw the red bark of the tree in front of him smoking. Carlton glanced upward at a thick log of branch stretching just over him— even in this downpour, it was on fire. The tree had been hit. He was frozen for a second, wondering over the flames as his clothes stuck to his skin, even his undershirt and boxers, his shoes slopping with every step.

He knew he must have jumped, but it was almost as if there was a hand at the back of his mind closing around his brain and pulling backwards— whatever it was, it woke him up. The branch above him creaked, or cracked— it was hard to discern the exact sound above how loud his heart was pounding in his ears. Before he knew it, he was on the ground, his legs snug into his chest and the thick branch bent at its crook, slamming the pavement he had occupied a few minutes— seconds?— before.

Lassiter stood up quickly to examine the damage of the fallen limb, but even as he circled it he used long steps, keeping his distance. His arms were shaking and he licked his lips repeatedly as if to reassure himself that he wasn't tasting any blood on them. Of course he couldn't see his own face but had the feeling his skin had lost some of its color, and that his eyes were wide. Lassiter decided he didn't need anymore reminders to get as far from these trees as he could. He backed away, keeping his eye on them until he was far enough so that he felt "safe".

He sighed. He had been right back at the station— it seemed this day _was_ screwed, though it had been long before Spencer had made any appearance. Lassiter frowned, but found he was puzzled at what kind of bullshit Spencer could had made IA swallow— _no, stop._ This was no longer important. What did it matter, if they had left without insisting he get in a cell like a common criminal and if Vick had actually been on his side, though not in front of them? It didn't matter. In fact, it was probably much better he didn't know— the reason was bound to make him angrier. Lassiter pressed on, surprised when he realized the rain was lessening— perhaps that trick with the branch had been a last hurrah. For the storm, anyway.

Just as he was considering trying for a signal again, Lassiter caught the flash of a human figure, the long, lean muscular frame of a man in a red flannel and jeans, a solid mass of dark curls disappearing around a corner up ahead about fifty feet. "Hey!" Lassiter yelled out, a loud clap of thunder competing with his voice. "Hey, you!" A prickling on the back of his arms told him to draw his gun, but the man was out of sight and he'd only got a glimpse of him from behind.

Maybe it was just nerves, left over heightened senses from barely dodging the fallen limb, or maybe it was his learned cop instincts, but he did reach for his gun, letting his fingers rest on the hilt as a way of grounding himself. The rain had lessened more, but it was still hard to see everything as clearly as he wanted to. Though a mock sun was pressing its pale circle against the clouds, it was still stuck against the storm front. He shivered uncomfortably in his wet clothing. Lassiter knew he had seen this figure, but there was no telling, from here, where he had gone.

He had to decide— should he take that step towards possible fatality— he scoffed, it _must_ be nerves still at his "near death"— or regard this as an information recovery mission, a sure shot to glory which he could offer to the Chief and garner a look of a job well done? What if this man knew anything about the so dubbed King of Hearts killer? Carlton hesitated for only a moment, before sighing and taking that step. Down the rabbit hole it was— without any foreseeable backup. He still had his gun, his phone— should he ever get a signal— and his wits— what hadn't already been fried— and hoped this wasn't going to be a misstep he lived to regret.


	3. Chapter 2: The Ground Beneath Your Feet

**Chapter Two: Take Me Down, Six Underground, The Ground Beneath Your Feet **

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Disclaimer: I don't own minor references to Season One's _Spellingg Bee, Scary Sherry: Bianca's Toast_ or _Nine Lives_.

Author's Note: As I was writing on this, I found the action taking a more graphic and slightly disturbing turn, so I've added a warning for "graphic violence". Let me know if I should up the rating. Thanks. As always, I welcome and appreciate your reviews and feedback.

Thanks for your patience in my delay of updating. A job, life's general stress and my computer crashing last week have added all these distractions and made it a little hard to focus. As I mentioned above, I so value any time and words you might be inclined to share; encouragement and motivation are so key. I also welcome constructive criticism and enjoy opinions on characters and their reactions to any given situation. Now, please to enjoy. :)

Special thanks to EgorStandish for all the helpful Lassiter tidbits! :)

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Lassiter turned the corner, the briefest edge he had seen to his left before the stranger had appeared and just as quickly, disappeared, up ahead. He caught sight of something blue— no, getting closer, quickening his pace, he saw it was more green— teal— lying upside-down on the path maybe twenty feet in front of him. The man was not in sight, but Lassiter continued along, stopping only when he got to the elongated oval shape. He tapped it with the toe of his black shoe and it tipped over, the rubber sole slurping against some puddled rain water on the paved path. It was a shoe, a thong, with the five neat circles of toe impressions around its top. It was hard to tell with all this rain if he was imaging seeing redness around the thong's base . . . or red being washed off the shoe onto the path. Lassiter straightened, his heart thudding in his chest. _Was that—? Was that blood?_

_Where could this have come from? _

It was obviously a woman's shoe, size 7 and 1/2 or 8, a simple flip flop, but what was it doing here without its mate? Let alone the wearer, whose bare feet may be burning up on the hot summer blacktop? Lassiter gazed in front of him; the entrance to at least one of the buildings seemed close, or maybe it was another trick of light and heat— a mirage that might take him another twenty minutes— sans "near death experiences"— to conquer. He glanced down, wondering for the first time if this shoe was being carried under someone's arm, and had been dropped— was it a startled drop, or was it on purpose?

_It looks like a creepy place, _O'Hara had transcribed from the tip. _Eerie, cuts to your bone, you know? It looks like a place a killer might frequent._ The words came back to him, unbidden. Again, Lassiter paused, now while staring down at the shoe. The back of his neck prickled uncomfortably, amid his soaked state. There was still a chance to turn around. He was still on the path outside— and the sun was just coming back out. Lassiter looked over his shoulder, in the direction he had come. He was sure he could pick his way back to his car, and not leave it until he was certain words had left his lips and dispatch responded with an "A-okay, we'll send O'Hara out."

_"Carlton, you are an idiot,"_ Vick's voice repeated in his mind, the trace of a smile on her lips. But her sentence was like a frustrated sigh, a pressure valve release. He knew she wanted to take him down a few more pegs, but for some reason had chosen to spare his— what? His feelings? Could she pick up how bruised his ego had become? Lassiter's top lip curled, a eyebrow dipping towards the bridge of his nose as he gritted his teeth. _Did he forget who he was? Carlton Lassiter, Santa Barbara's Head Detective?_ He scrubbed a hand— the burned one, he realized with a minor wince— across the back of his neck, hoping the sensation would banish his unplacable worry, or awe. He was _not_ going to be cowed into going back.

_I can handle this,_ he thought. _I don't always need O'Hara to be around. I managed without her before_— his thoughts lingered briefly on a cold space, the outer edges warmed by the memory of Lucinda, but a cold space nonetheless. This emptiness was just as strange as the hairs on the back of his arms standing up now. Lassiter retrieved his gun from its holster, checking the safety which he was an expert at snapping off in a second's notice, and held it firmly at his side, its muzzle facing the ground, like a child who has been taught the correct way to carry scissors, blade down, when walking.

This had never stopped him from running with his gun up, safety off, if the situation called for haste. If the IA agents could see him now, he'd likely get more than his wrist slapped, but the weight of his gun in hand helped him chase away past and present thoughts that were making him fret, just a little. Part of him was glad he was alone, with his thoughts, of course, but on this chore. If he found anything— he would take complete credit for it.

Something hissed in the back of his mind, making him falter, an internal wincing, for a few seconds. Lassiter tightened the grip on his weapon, ignoring, this time, the pull of his burned skin in the grip. He set his face after taking one more glance at the shoe. He'd retrieve that on his way out, he decided. Unless the phantom Cinderella or her unnamed prince returned first.

This was not the place of fairy tales, but nightmares, of blood stained keys, demon loves. He couldn't hear it anymore, the pulsing alarm that he turn back, turn back now; this was the very last chance, but he did wonder over why it had gone missing from his urgency. Again, Lassiter was struck by the dizzying depths of his own thoughts, almost as if there were something in the air invading his senses; still, he was drawn forward. He turned the corner where the man had disappeared around, and was disparaged to see more pathways— but there, ahead not too far, finally, another, closer door.

* * *

"Mr. Spencer, why am I not surprised?" Chief Vick sighed when she saw Shawn and Gus approaching the crime scene. It almost as surprising that they were braving the rain. Well, it was only sprinkling, but CSU had still taken precautions by draping clear plastic tarps held above the body with wooden marker stakes pushed into the sand. As soon as they stepped of the sidewalk and started across the sand, Gus got too good a glimpse at the sliced up corpse; he managed to wrinkle his nose once at the coppery, stale odor of the blood of the dead before he, himself, stopped dead. Vick saw him exchange a few quick words with Shawn, gesturing almost frantically and puckering with anger when Shawn tried to talk him out of it. Shawn took two strides away from the frozen man, then stopped and glanced over his shoulder. When he turned back towards her, Vick saw that Shawn was resigned but not so much surprised that Gus was halfway to the car, his speed walking melting into a sprint when he got off the sidewalk and crossed the road.

"Is Gus okay?" Juliet asked, pinching her brows together as she glanced at Gus's progress.

Shawn shrugged. "You know how he is, can't stand the sight of blood." Shawn looked over the body, his own stomach doing a little flip. "And that's a lot of blood." His eyes alighted over the sadly familiar details that he remembered from the crime scene photographs he'd been shown. This was the very first time he'd seen one of the King of Hearts Killer's victims up close. Being as schooled as he had been growing up with a cop for a father, Shawn usually found himself more than capable of making jokes in the face of death— even when it was his own life on the line if a gun was pointed at him. If Gus had stayed, he may have been able to cough a few up, maybe something tasteless about the high stakes of losing a poker game to this guy, but he respectfully kept his mouth closed.

As in the other cases, a suicide king had been severed with a Bowie with a 6 mm blade plunged into the victim's heart, and then the card was pinned elegantly to the woman's light blue tank top with a 15 cm hat pin, the signature of the red teardrop tip the same. Again, Shawn picked up that the hearts on these cards were slanted just so, not enough to really pick up on unless the person with the normal eye and processing skills analyzed and overanalyzed this card for hours on end. It made Shawn question the manufacturing of these cards— it seemed less and less that they were regular cards from deck— mass produced— and more and more likely that they were some other artist's rendering— either a deliberate fake or a poor attempt at flawless reproduction. As before, Shawn kept these wonderings to himself, not certain how relevant they would be and also in case he needed this small detail later on to use in one of his reveals.

Shawn squatted down in the sand at the woman's feet. As the others, her bare foot, both the sole and top were deeply slashed— he swallowed. It looked like it hurt so bad, this slow, slow torture. He thought briefly of his own low threshold for pain and wondered if this woman had been welcoming, even for a second, the end— the pierce of the heart, the pain line to her brain severed. Forever. He bent closer to her other foot, the one with the shoe still in place. The top of the left foot was also cut up, but the shoe had the appearance of being lovingly arranged. Shawn noticed that the toes on this foot each had curved cuts, as if the killer had used the tip of the knife to split the skin on each toe in half.

"Don't touch anything!" Vick called, startling him. Shawn pulled back from the body in time to catch Vick glaring at him before she squatted down to take a closer look at something in the victim's short, stylish dark chocolate hair. Shawn was curious just what she might be retrieving with her gloves; it seemed, he thought, aware of his insensitivity, that Vick was a primate picking fleas or ticks from another, and that at any moment she would stick the bug in her mouth and chew.

He couldn't make out from here what she was holding; she was too quick ordering one of her forensic officers to get out an evidence bag so she could place this found item in. The bag disappeared just as quickly. Suppressing a sigh, Shawn got to his feet, patting the legs of his jeans for any stray granules.

"So, Jules, what have we got?" He tried out one of his winning smiles, but she wasn't looking at him, instead, signing off on something on a clipboard that an officer was holding.

"Shawn, I don't have time to chatter," Juliet said. She did look busy, but Shawn still pressed.

When she hesitated, he hastily reminded her that the Chief had brought him for extra help on this case. Juliet sighed.

She explained that the body was found in this location by a man walking his dog. The SBPD had responded quickly, especially when it was learned a storm front was rolling in and key evidence could likely be lost in the event of rain. She went over the details he already knew, how this appeared to be the latest serial kill of the King of Hearts mystery man— or woman— by way of objects left behind or missing, direction, width and depth of the cuts, and by the fatal piercing to the heart. She was, however, in lightning speed in this discussion, never stopping, making him keep pace with her, and interrupting herself to talk to other officers and CSU.

In her multitasking, Juliet had even managed to pull out her cell phone and try Lassiter's number again, frustrated that there was still no answer. Shawn glanced at the screen quickly, wondering for the first time why Lassiter wasn't on scene. Not that he cared one way or the other, especially after how jerkish the Head Detective had behaved towards him earlier. It wouldn't be that hard to devise something that would annoy Lassiter, but Shawn figured he'd have to think of something especially evil as pay back. It gave his step a little bound, but he found he was curious, and asked.

Juliet sighed again, an unguarded worry sliding out from under her frustration for a second. Then it was gone, and she tried for anger, then sullenness. "He always answers his phone. It's hard to believe he's been off sulking for this long; he lives for this sort of thing. Though our caseload this week has been heavy, and it's plausible he off tracking some lead for another case."

Chief Vick waved Juliet towards her, first shooting a frown at Shawn. Juliet looked at him full faced for the first time. "I think that's your cue to leave, Shawn," she told him with a small smile.

"But things are just getting good."

Juliet tossed a look and another smile at him over her shoulder. "Yeah. Right?"

* * *

"So, you are over here," Shawn said as he approached Gus's Echo, aka The Psychmobile. At least this alias was what he most often referred to as Gus's company car.

Gus was waiting, propped against the driver's side door with his arms crossed. "As if you didn't know."

Shawn studied his best friend. This time, he honestly couldn't blame Gus for not wanting to get the "full experience" of getting up close and personal with a corpse such as that. He wouldn't admit it, but the scene had chilled him. The pictures they had scene, though obscene, did _that_ little justice. Shawn absently glanced over his right shoulder; he could make out Juliet's slender silhouette in profile adjusting the sunglasses on the bridge of her nose. The sun had just peeked out before he'd started back, and down on the beach it was suddenly very bright. It was making the details he'd already seen too clearly brighter; and he didn't want to see anymore.

"It's this King of Cards guy," Gus declared when Shawn was close.

"Hearts, Gus. They're calling him the King of—"

Gus waved his hand in the air to signify a "never mind." "That cologne was so strong," he explained as though Shawn were already clued in. "It was more odorous than the blood."

Shawn's face scrunched up, his eyebrows dipping towards his eyes while his mouth hiked towards his nose. "Say what?"

Gus huffed. "The cologne from those other playing cards?" Gus added the inflection of a question at the last second because Shawn still looked baffled. "Don't you remember being in Chief Vick's office? Looking at the photographs of bodies this killer has left strewn about?"

"Yes," Shawn said slowly, waiting.

"Okay. And don't you remember when she opened the seal on one of the evidence bags of the playing cards and had us smell—"

Shawn fumbled around in his memory for this event, eventually recalling it partially as he had, at the time, been using his "divining skills" to not so subtly flirt with Juliet. He told Gus, yes, he remembered.

"It's the same one," Gus said as he sniffed the air outside of the car.

"How do you know that? You were only there for a, like, a second before you ran away."

"They don't call me the Super Smeller for nothing," Gus said proudly, adopting a smile.

"Dude, no one calls you the Super Smeller—"

Gus raised an eyebrow. "You do. You have. And my parents—"

Shawn sighed. "Three people, maybe two. I'd still like, in writing, these incidents when the words 'Super Smeller', directed at you, came out of my mouth."

Gus rolled his eyes and then cleared his throat, continuing as if this interlude had never transpired. "Old West Cologne for Men. Shawn, it was right there in the wind, mixed with the scent of summer rain, atmosphere and sand. How did you miss that?"

"Because I'm the Super Seer and you're the Super—" A smirk overtook Shawn's mouth. "Nice try, buddy."

"'Super Seer'?" Gus repeated. "That's never going to stick."

"I think you're wrong about that. It can be a dual act— we can take it on the road. Think of all the pineapple—"

"— That will be thrown at us?" Gus frowned, shaking his head. "Uh, uh. I'm not working with you. What do you think I am, crazy?"

Shawn's phone jingled. He pulled it from his pocket as Gus eyed him suspiciously. "Who's that?" he asked.

"Relax, it's just a text message," Shawn replied, scanning quickly over the screen. His brow furrowed. "That's . . . odd."

"What?" Gus asked, raising an eyebrow. "Some girl you met pissed you didn't call her for a second date?" When Shawn didn't answer, Gus opened the driver's side door and got in, starting the car to gesture his impatience to be gone from this place.

Shawn flashed back to his and Juliet's conversation a few minutes prior. "This is definitely the M.O. of the King of Hearts killer, down to the 15 cm red tipped hat pin, severed suicide king playing card and the missing shoe— it seems like it was taken as a souvenir."

_O'Hara, checking out the tips you got for KOKH sightings. 6067 West Trail & Beach Lane, Samarkind. Back soon. You do good work. _

"667, neighbor of the beast," Shawn mumbled, thankful Gus was busy adjusting the level of air conditioning to really question his quip.

"Must be a misdialed number," Shawn told his friend when he opened the car door. "And I did call that girl back."

"Which girl?" Gus asked, idling through the beach's parking lot.

"You know, that girl. From the— the other day." Shawn hoped Gus was too occupied getting back onto the road and away from the scene of this grisly killing to notice how distracted he sounded. He smiled to make a show that it looked like nothing, but a tiny pinch of anxiety pulled his eyes open a little wider. He bit his lip and took a deep breath, resolved to not let Gus in on just what this might be until he had more facts.

And so he could get himself out of being at fault. It had just struck him as strange that Detective Lassiter was not here— and that Jules had said that he wasn't picking up his phone. This was a big case, and Shawn knew that Vick was putting a lot of pressure on Lassiter and Jules for concrete answers— and an arrest. He should be here— but he was, like the other missing shoe, nowhere to be seen. Or heard from.

_Why send this text to me?_ he wondered, though he'd already closed the phone and stowed it in one of his pockets. It was meant for— Jules. Could that mean Lassiter had be flustered, or without clarity? Shawn shook his head, glancing out the window at the passing blur of scenery. Lassiter wasn't the type to make these kind of mistakes.

A cold dread spiraled into the pit of his stomach that usually kept as a back-up space for extra food consumption. _What if . . . what if Lassiter's gotten into trouble? And what if . . . it's all because of me? _

* * *

As he walked, Lassiter shook off any unprofessional rookie nervousness he'd allowed himself to fall into by talking up his ego to himself. He'd loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar because the wet fabric stuck to his neck had been bothering him. He engaged in a second pep talk, this one longer with more reminders. _Remember who you are. Carlton Lassiter, youngest Head Detective in the Santa Barbara Police Department's history. You don't take crap from anyone, or give into whims or let some strange descent of eeriness get to you_. Lassiter wasn't insecure, or he would have made excuses not to get out of the car in the first place, but it didn't hurt to boost his confidence to eleven out of ten every now and then.

His overconfidence was even able to talk him back to the side of good feelings— this lead seemed more and more likely to pan out— even if this was just another tip that led to another. Maybe this was the third to last piece of the puzzle that would finally allow him± ahem— the SBPD to lock up another dangerous and sociopathic criminal.

Carlton even chided himself for the vertigo-esque feelings he had had, though his feet were planted firmly on the ground. To prove to himself he was fine, he set his Glock .45 in its holster. He found it almost easy now to adjust his mindset and convince himself that his previous bad luck had occurred not today but yesterday, and this was a new day. He imagined the gloating he would do at the station, using that magnanimous catch phrase, "Just doing my job," which was always betrayed by his giddy smile and his willingness to exaggerate and over-share. Though, his conscience reminded him that he'd need to consider O'Hara and credit her as if she were there by his side during this— somewhat harrowing— mission of information retrieval. Especially if there was more than met the eye and it wouldn't be just information he'd be gleaning.

He frowned a little at giving O'Hara an unearned pat on the back— though he wouldn't have come here if not for her— and the Chief, so he reasoned that he'd have to be okay with sharing the limelight. And, giving _selflessly_ O'Hara her dues made him appear humble, friendlier and more open— an ear to listen and a wise soul to ask for advice. Though, Lassiter grumbled, he was never going to willingly listen to Buzz McNab paw for advice about sexual positions that Francie had read about in a woman's magazine.

If not for O'Hara— and the Goochberg Incident of 2006— Lassiter knew he would still be viewed as a cold fish or an angry, work alcoholic loner. So, it wasn't so bad after all.

Lassiter smirked, seeing his destination with new sight.

He was only slightly aware of his still damp, sticky clothes, having written off the discomfort as part of his job description— until his long strides took him to the middle of a swarm of bugs, buzzing, whining, (hissing? No, these kinds of bugs didn't hiss. Right?) over an inch deep oval of stagnant rainwater, pooled at the bottom of a sloping pathway. Lassiter gasped, annoyed immediately when he sucked a few tiny bodies into his mouth— no-see-'ums, tiny flies and mosquitos. He spit, wiping his tongue with the back of his right hand, cursing when he was reminded that the skin was still irritated from an earlier mishap.

These pests seemed to know exactly who he was— _fresh meat_— landing on him and pecking like vultures. He swatted furiously, cursing again his wet clothes. They hummed and whined in his ears, looking for any open passage to get inside his body and bite.

The top button of his collar was undone; his neck, face and hands were the only other exposed skin. But he seemed to taste so delicious to these little demons, they were not satisfied with the exposed skin they could bite, and were attacking his wrists by breaching his shirt cuffs. Lassiter slapped his chest as some disappeared down the front of his wet shirt, some skimming his neck with furious bites. He could almost feel them invading the space between his buttons; he bit back curses with a grimace, not wanting to swallow any more. He slapped at his arms and torso and anywhere else he could _swear_ he felt them biting— on his legs, his back, the back of his neck, his scalp, his forehead— _god! god!_— his cheeks and lips. Relentless, it seemed they had planning this attack for a long time and were bent on the kill.

Resolved not to fall prey to these little killers, Lassiter shuffled his way through them quickly, pressing himself towards a stone half wall off to his left.

On the way, Lassiter raked his short fingernails across the damp fabric sticking to his chest, stomach and arms, trying to satisfy both the real itches of the mosquito bites and the imaginary ones brought on by the bug paranoia. All his life, he had _hated_ these bloodsuckers and questioned the purpose of their existence. As he got older, the hatred got stronger. He had shocked a few Goth suspects once while interrogating them when he admitted that he did believe in vampires, but he hadn't elaborated on just what kind. Mosquitoes were a pest worse even than deer flies or fire ants— worse even, dare he say, than Shawn Spencer.

While he scratched, he became aware that his tie was missing and grumbled over it for a moment. He considered briefly turning back to look for it, but wasn't about to give those little biters another chance at him. It was only a seven dollar tie and easily replaceable, but it was one that O'Hara had made a nice comment about recently. (Well, it was only a tie.)

Why did his thoughts keep turning back to her? Was it because she wasn't around to tease him— albeit platonically— about all the bad luck he kept encountering? In the beginning, she had fretted over his temper, keeping her mouth shut while he swore like a sailor or cursed things beyond their control, like the weather forecast or a perp's mindset. The more comfortable they both became with each other, the more she spoke up and shut him down when he got too out of control. It was begrudging, but he did come to respect her for her uncanny ability to be able to not only put up with him on a daily basis but to give as good as she got and not once run away crying.

Making it to the wall, which he eagerly rubbed his back against to relieve its real or imagined bites, Lassiter got out his cell phone again, wondering if this was a better place for a signal. He had one bar; he dialed and put the phone against his ear to wait.

She would laugh at him, for being caught out in the rain, for nearly having a heavy branch smash him in the head. He'd see.

While he waited for her to pick up, he heard a low whistling— a tune unfamiliar to him. Lassiter was on instant alert, pulling the phone from his ear and heading towards the tune— which seemed to be coming from the other side of the half wall. He slipped the phone into his pocket and rested his hand on his gun which he had replaced into its holster earlier.

The wall, he found out, was in the shape of an "L", with the base of "L" leading him around an angled turn to the left. On this side, it was darker and the air smelled of muddy dampness; he stepped forward and then down; these were blind stairs going down, how far he wasn't certain. "Hello?" he called out, poised on the top step, looking around. Carlton couldn't hear the whistling anymore and wondered if he'd imagined it, but wondered if this was worth checking out. He got his cell phone out of his pocket and used the lit up screen as a makeshift lantern. This was another pathway like the others, only with stone steps the same kind as the wall.

After five small steps, Lassiter bumped into a burnt orange metal door. Its handle was tarnished. _Hmm, another way in?_ Lassiter wondered, trying it. Pulling did nothing, so he pushed, surprised when his gentle touch produced creaking in the door's hinges. _Huh._ Lassiter paused; the glimpse he'd got of just inside the door was only more dimly lit space. Beyond that, the promise enticed of more dimly lit rooms that smelled of old dirt. He hung back, pulling up O'Hara's number and dialing. Now that he was actually about to enter, he found he had some justifiable doubts.

The line was ringing, but he sort of expected the signal to cut out at any moment. Still, he wanted to try. He leaned forward, pushing the door in a little further. He couldn't see much, not below the door or past where it was open. _Come on, O'Hara,_ he thought, his patience waning.

"Razor blades and lemon juice."

Carlton stiffened; the voice, smoky and distinctly male, had been uttered directly behind him, but he had little time to gather his thoughts let alone make an attempt to defend himself before a hand was slapped between his shoulder blades and he was shoved forward— into the door (he grunted as his nose, chin, then forehead flared with pain)— with a fury that was disagreeable with the almost friendly statement he'd heard. The hand was attached to a very strong arm which moved him easily; the shock couldn't have helped his situation either. He was supposed to be warned of these things by his guardedness— his readiness of fight (or flight). Had it slipped? He tried to whip his head over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of his assailant, but the culprit was too fast. As Carlton clumsily pitched forward, the door swung fully open on its hinges and he smashed into it as the bottom of his feet lost their grip on solid ground.

The space under the door was not even or level, and he found himself falling with much more dread than he'd felt earlier when he'd tripped over his own feet in the station.

Lassiter estimated a drop of about five feet. He distantly heard the door somewhere above him slam closed; this also brought on worry he thought he'd already banished. Instead of landing on his chest as he had before, Carlton fell into a squat, landing hard on his left ankle, hearing something crack or pop. He hoped to the highest power it wasn't a bone but just a stiff joint in need of release. It wasn't enough pain to rake tears to his eyes, but he did yell out some expletives, recalling some from earlier when he'd walked through the torrent of rain.

He crumpled onto the ground of this room, which had a dirt floor, rocking onto his back as his left ankle protested— and resisted— any extra weight. _God. Dammit. Could it be twisted? _Lassiter lay on the ground for about thirty seconds, giving himself time to go over what had just happened and recollect the air that had been knocked out of him when he'd hit the ground.

_I was pushed. Someone— a guy— pushed me down here. _But, why? And, could this attacker be the same flash of man he'd seen outside? Huffing, Carlton crawled to his hands and knees, gently pressing back on his feet to test his ankle. It seemed okay, so he pressed more. Pain spiked up his leg to his knee and forced Lassiter to cry out. _Dammit, this is bad._ Focusing on it, he could separate its throbbing from the other minor bumps. Great, if his ankle was twisted, putting any kind of weight on it was going to be a bitch.

_But I can't lie here all day, _he told himself, squinting around the room. The lights were low; the walls, the same kind of stone as the "L" shaped wall he'd followed down here. Abruptly, he sat back on his heels, remembering he'd had his cell phone out when he'd been blindsided. Pain grayed his vision and forced him to ease forward onto his elbows, taking all weight off his left ankle. _What— what did I get myself into?_ Lassiter thought, wiping away some sweat from his forehead. Where had his cell phone ended up? This was the time he could use some help— though it would have been much better if he'd taken preventative measures more seriously. Carlton searched the floor for his phone, trying to force back any paranoia that he'd dropped it outside. He took advantage of slow movement; he might need that strength soon. The pain wasn't anything like the time he'd broken his shoulder slipping in the shower that one time, which did bring him comfort.

Relief flooded him as he laid his hands on a hunk of plastic, but panic stirred as he ran his fingers along the surface and felt jagged edges. He brought the object closer to his eyes, his heart skipping into his throat as he realized it was his phone, but it was broken. A large chunk of it was missing, namely the keypad and the screen. Lassiter's blue eyes stared off ahead of him as he placed the useless device on the ground. He had no choice; he would have to crawl until the pain receded enough so he could stand. Then, what? Well, he did still have his gun— _yes, yes, it was still there._

Lassiter choked back any anxiety, moving out of this room gingerly and carefully. The light faded, but he kept up a pace until it was a rhythm. He estimated he was down low for about seven minutes before the air changed; Carlton raised his head slowly. He was no longer in the basement-like room he'd been forced into; this space was huge and artifically bright— and nothing like what its pretty, art-like facade had suggested. There were not many rooms, hallways and doors, staircases or elevators, nothing decorative or welcoming. Not like a fancy house or office building. No, this space was large, hollowed out, with plain, dirty cold floors— only dirt in places— as if it were a building being prepared for demolition.

Lassiter's mouth dropped open as he took in his new surroundings, unable to ignore the deadness that had gripped his stomach. He felt insignificant in this place, tiny, something he, at 6'1", was not accustomed to. The charming spell from without was gone, and in its place, a dungeon-like presence of hard walls. He sniffed; there it was again. Again, he forced himself to choke down his panic— after all, he'd been in situations much worse than this. Right?

As he struggled for an example, the citrus odor hit his nostrils again, and he couldn't halt his shiver. It was only one— but so was he.

For the first time since he'd come here, Lassiter hoped that O'Hara's found tip would amount to absolutely nothing. He winced as he gathered his legs together and got to his feet, the pain in his swollen ankle threatening him with a black out for a few moments. Lassiter gritted his teeth hard, waiting out the pain to see if he could take it. Even if he couldn't, he was determined to try. It was ironic that he'd spent so much time trying to get in, and now he worried that if— _if that man who had pushed him was_— Carlton closed his eyes, taking in some deep breaths— _if it was, could this place be his grave?_


	4. Chapter 3: Playing You For A Fool

**Chapter Three: I've Been Playing You For A Fool, You Fell For Every Broken Rule**

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Disclaimer: I don't own iphone or any of its possible accessories.

Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone for reading and for all of your wonderful feedback! Your reviews mean more to me that I can possibly express with words, so I hope you all know how much you are appreciated. :)

WARNING: This is the chapter where the graphic violence/ gore/ bloodiness/ general disturbing stuff begins. It will be escalating from here on out, so prepare for that as well as for, um, practically never-ending Lassiter whumpage. I've changed the rating to "M" because, honestly, the villain is scaring me, and I made him, so, just to be safe. There will also be more swearing , but likely not in excessive amounts.

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Lassiter's hesitation, he decided, was to become more aware of his surroundings— what kind of space he was dealing with, what possible obstacles he might face— instead of a deliberate pause out of the pain of being upright after practically blowing out his ankle in the fall. After compounding years in the public eye, he had learned to conceal his physical— and mostly his emotional— pain behind a neutral facade or even a necessary smile. He still found himself biting back manly whimpers and heavy panting as if there were someone around to impress, either an underling or a superior, so that he couldn't afford to let any of his discomfort show.

Lassiter hobbled a few steps forward, wondering if, somewhere in the shadows there were other rooms, doors, a phone or a radio. The whole place couldn't be just this one big open space— right? Staring at it was giving him a reverse sense of dizzying vertigo— instead of looking down from a great height, he was looking up from the bottom of a pit.

_Get a grip, you're the only one you've got,_ Carlton told himself. He shook his head for good measure, forcing himself forward, but carefully. It was slow going, stepping towards the outstretched brown shadows; he stepped only on the toes of his left foot, finding it the best way to avoid putting his body weight on it. It wasn't a perfect solution and still hurt badly, but it was the best alternative to crawling. Halfway there, Carlton kicked himself, being reminded that he should have his gun out and ready. Getting it out did make him feel a little better; after all, his attacker could be anywhere in the lumbering silence, just waiting for Carlton to slip up again.

As if that wasn't going to be hard to do. He rolled his eyes. Getting to the edge of the shadows, he walked the line, trying to decide if he should enter. The inner shadows were black and could be concealing anything from a room at level to another unwelcome drop of several feet. Hearing a repeat of the sentence spoken at the back of his neck, but this time just an echo of its past in the back of his mind, Carlton spun around, making sure he was covering the space he'd just walked from. It was still quiet and he could detect no other human presence. The air had an earthy smell, of dirt, and some kind of rotting vegetation.

Lassiter sighed, wondering vaguely for a few moments what he should do. His thoughts slipped back to his broken cell phone— its replacement was likely going to come out of his paycheck. He frowned, another embarrassment he'd have to explain on paper and have put on record. And it had happened because he'd been so intent on getting his partner on the line that his guard had slipped— and he had allowed a stranger to not only sneak up on him but assault him as well. How had he not heard the approach or the inhale of breath before the words were spoken? And before that, there was the whistling— Lassiter frowned again, hating himself for having allowed his senses to dull.

_Maybe I should try to get back to that door—_ that was only way he knew was a definite out. Or was it? A drop of five feet wasn't that startling, but it had been unexpected and he was unprepared. It shouldn't be too hard to scramble out of the door, even if he had climb through it on his belly, scraping his injured leg along the ground. Lassiter had more than a sneaking suspicion that, should he make it back to that door, it would be locked from the outside and he would still be trapped. _Trapped. _Great, he hadn't wanted to think in those terms, but now that he had, a twist of worry gripped his temples the way the tension headache had much before he'd come here. Carlton supposed he a right to feel uneasy— there was someone here with him, whether he liked it or not, and it was becoming more than probable that this other person was not just a squatter or a local drunk.

Absently, he scratched at some mosquito bites on his arm and chest, then along his thigh and the small of his back, holding his hurt ankle off the floor while he paused. There was a chance, he decided, that O'Hara may not have received his message; if she had, wouldn't she have texted him back with something, even just with a reluctant "okay" or a promise of face-to-face word exchange when he got back? He allowed himself a smirk; he could always pull rank on her no matter what— if he saw fit to take her tip and run with it, then he could— the smirk fell away.

He sighed. If she were here, she would demand he lean on her to take weight off his ankle. And he would bark that he was fine— but the look on her small face wouldn't relent even if her words might. "She's making me soft," Lassiter said to the shadows, who offered no comment. Truth was, he could use her here— for other than just physical support. She always accepted his grumbling whenever he gave in to her offer of help— out of necessity— pleased with herself, he knew, that she had drawn him out of his solitary shell. Another faint smile returned to his lips; what O'Hara did wasn't so bad— and he gave her ample credit for not slapping him silly much more often— rank or not.

_You're more than capable of getting yourself out of trouble,_ Lassiter reminded himself. _You don't need _some girl_ to come and save you. Hmm._ But that was, he amended, a bit unfair. O'Hara was much more than "some girl"— and really, if there was any inkling in her that his ass was still worth saving, than he wouldn't turn it down. He could easily play it up that he had the situation all under control, but he knew she could often see right through his bullshit— and was also amazingly suave at primping his ego.

It astounded Lassiter how O'Hara was so adept at reading his personality but wore some kind of blinders when it came to Spencer's. Of course, the Chief was also watching this same channel; Lassiter's top lip curled. Plain and simple, Spencer had more charm than he did, and knew exactly how to use it. But Spencer was never going to be a cop, and it seemed his morals were loose at best. One good thing about Spencer, despite his uncanny ability for crime solving— methods always, always in question— was that he seemed fiercely loyal and protective of his friends, and for some reason that Lassiter couldn't fathom, Spencer had chosen him as part of this unlikely group. He would be much below Vick and even McNab, but still. It brought out another annoyed frown; it was a necessary but unwelcome working— thing; Lassiter found he couldn't use the word "partnership" or "professional relationship" without feeling weirded out. O'Hara was the only partner he wanted— ahem— needed, and the fact that Spencer and Guster attached themselves to cases had made the four of them, and sometimes the Chief, into one of the strangest teams on record.

Oh, well, enough about that. They would be plenty of time to be annoyed later— if he could get out of here without passing out. Lassiter had unwillingly pictured Spencer's teasing from earlier and had wondered what would be in store for him when Spencer found out— the bastard always had his ways— about all this, but now he was nearly overcome by lightheadedness. After a long set a deep breaths, Carlton willed the pain to recede, and in an effort to prove he was fine, started walking again. Noticing a pale yellow wall ahead, he went towards it, concentrating on each step with his ears and eyes alert, the Glock at his side ready to be raised at a second's notice.

The slanted shadow he'd made out two feet away on the wall was a door frame. Carlton turned the handle, pushing the door open all the way and testing the ground for stability before he crossed the threshold. He tossed a look over his shoulder but couldn't see anyone, so he went in.

The ground beneath his feet was only dirt, much like the basement room he'd been shoved down in to. It was dimly lit by some overhead bulbs. This room, actually enclosed with four walls, mimicked the space outside with its bareness— it had a gutted feel, as if anything useful had been long ago taken. Carlton swallowed, walking through it to a narrow area that had likely been a hallway but had now had the feel of a tunnel. It was short, and emptied into smaller room. This one, he noted with a gulp, looked like very crude living quarters— maybe it was only some squatter having a few laughs. A bare, dirty mattress lay on the ground next to a wall, and on its opposite side, two small cardboard shoe boxes stacked up on each other. Carlton resisted glancing behind him and went towards the stuff, flinching when his sore ankle glanced of the corner of the mattress. _Goddammit._ He hastily wiped a hand across his forehead, preemptive of the inevitable sweat.

Lassiter didn't realize he was holding his breath until was in the process of lowering himself into a squat so he could open the boxes. He glanced out of the corner of his eye to see if anyone was there— still no one. Using the muzzle of the Glock, he knocked the lid off of the box on top.

At first, his brain told him he wasn't really seeing what he was seeing. After all, who would be that careless to just leave a prop such as this just lying about. But no one was here— no, that was a lie. It was quiet enough to believe that, but he was here and so was—

Lassiter's breath caught in his throat. Had the circumstances of the discovery been the slightest altered— had he felt that he was more in control— _Forget that,_ he sneered at himself. This was enough for a search warrant, and it wasn't exactly breaking and entering since he'd been pushed—

He started to reach into the box with his bare fingers, but stopped himself in time, pulling out a handkerchief from his inside breast pocket. He was awed by how many there were when he retrieved a single one— all exactly the same size and color, 15 cmm in length with a shiny silver base and a red teardrop shaped cap. They were stacked neatly up to the very top of the box in smooth, perfect rows.

It wasn't until he had one wrapped in the handkerchief and back into his pocket that he really thought, _Oh, my god. Oh, my god._ Lassiter felt a rush of emotion, one he mistakenly assumed was 100% excitement, until he remembered exactly where he was and why he was here alone. Or, not here alone, but why he'd walked into whatever he'd walked into alone.

_That's great, you've finally got a viable lead— tangible proof— and nobody knows it but you. And you can't tell them because—_ in frustration, Lassiter bumped the box of hat pins with a swipe of arm. It didn't tip, but the pins rattled. He frowned, reaching for the lid when he heard a thud directly above his head. Startled, this swipe of arm knocked the box off completely, spilling the pins across the floor. There was another thud, then the sound of heavy footsteps. Ruling out immediately that it was a ghost, Carlton jerked himself to his feet, leaving the mess and the other unopened box where they were. His ankle reminded him to take care, but he told it to "Shut it" with a grimace. He hobbled towards another door in the wall, hoping it would take him somewhere that would— this time, his grimace bore some traces of fear— bring him face to face with the man he guessed was the King of Hearts serial killer. _Take out this bastard before he hurts anyone else,_ Lassiter thought, feeling a swell of bravery that was deserved or not.

He was through another hallway and nearly out into another narrow area, slightly larger than the "hall" when the lights overhead flickered for the first time. Lassiter paused, listening for rain or thunder— some cause for the electricity to short out. Again, only silence.

The back of his throat felt dry. He raised his gun and stalked forward as hunter ready to snag his prey. The lights flickered two more times, then seemed fine. He looked around; the walls seemed to press inward but it was only a trick of the low light. When he finally made it through, he turned a sharp angle to the left, and glimpsed a blur of movement ahead. Logic wasn't with him when he pressed on, unable to separate how he could have heard noise over his head and only a few minutes later now see something plausibly solid adorned fast with red and tan up ahead.

"Hey, you! Stop!" Lassiter yelled, giving chase yet again to the figure he had only seen the briefest flashes of; wondering now if the flash of hand he'd seen had been the one he'd felt between his shoulder blades a short time ago, shoving him inside this little funhouse. He heard clanging of this person likely ascending stairs, and picked up his pace. He had given into running, though it hurt and was another of his many pet peeves, but allowed himself to entertain the fantasy of discharging his weapon near to this mysterious figure's eardrums— causing _temporary_ hearing loss. He smirked to himself as he pivoted around another corner, grumbling when he caught sight of a metal staircase up ahead.

Lassiter stopped, unease resting under his tongue as he saw that not only was the staircase steep, with ten open, wide steps spaced about a foot apart each, and a long metal landing at the top, but also it seemed, after twenty, to disappear into the ceiling. It had to be an enclosed landing, but he wasn't as certain about climbing it as he'd like to be. Especially with his ankle in its condition. With his long, muscular legs, it shouldn't be problem, but he wondered if he was putting himself in more blind area than where he was now.

If the killer was up there, he was likely armed— and probably had no qualms about killing a cop. _But I can't— I can't just let him get away,_ Lassiter reasoned, estimating the climb. _What if he goes out to kill someone else while I'm out looking for help?_ Lassiter set his face, losing the placing of it once while he ambled to the stairs, but then fixed it. He'd decided, he was going to do this. He holstered his gun so he could keep his balance.

Lassiter leapt for the first step, feeling the slightest skitter of worry when the lights above dimmed, then blacked out. He landed on the step and began his climb, annoyed at the darkness until the lights turned back on. Pain jolted up his left leg with every step. He'd made another two before the lights flickered; one more and then another flicker. He was halfway up, but paused mid-step to the sixth. He didn't want to risk another tumble— a fall like this could kill him. Lassiter squared his feet on the stairs, and waited until the lights were stabilized before he raced to the top. When the lights darkened again, Lassiter kept running, ignoring the twisting in his gut that he couldn't place where his feet were landing and stepping to. As the lights flickered again, his blue eyes were drawn downward— and he was struck by the outline of an elongated oval pressed in red against the silver of the stair. This time, the lights stayed out.

He slid on the second step just before the landing, a shoe dipping in some gelatinous sticky goo, pivoting 180 in the pitch black darkness. A rush of air left his lungs; there wasn't time for any words or last thoughts or stale images of his life up until this point. Lassiter's arms wrapped up around his head, trying to ward off disfigurement or instant death when his skull cracked open against one of the hard stairs or worse, the metal landing above or below. Lassiter pitched forward, his stomach lurching into his throat in the heady, suffocating darkness.

The lights flickered on for a brief moment; to his left, he glimpsed a metal railing he'd before missed. In a fit of terror reserved for a toddler, Lassiter flailed, his blue eyes as wide as they could go; though he'd never, ever admit that the gurgles coming from his parted lips were bubbled with saliva and infant-like. The brightness wasn't going to last; Lassiter's long fingers closed around the thin pipe railing just as artificial night switched back on. The relief was short lived; the railing went slick with wetness from his palms. His hands descended the railing as he did, jerking him back at base as his knees banged against the third step; his double handed grip was lost.

In one last desperate attempt to save himself, Lassiter threw his left shoulder towards the railing, crying out for the first time since the sliding as the metal jarred his skin and bones, scraping him through his clothes, shredding some of the fabric on his way down. Lassiter's left cheek glanced the hard sharp arrow where the longer and shorter parts of railing connected, and then his body lost all connection with the metals. He cried out again, turning in one direction in midair, his body hurtling headlong into dark space ahead, as something hard clashed meanly with the back of his head. Then he crumpled on the floor, face down, unmoving.

* * *

Back finally to the non-bloodied safety of the Psych office, Gus busied himself with distractions of food, so engrossed with this and checking his e-mail for a solid ten minutes that he didn't even notice Shawn's pinched forehead or the way he stared at the desk's surface with his chin on the back of his hands.

"You sick or something?" Gus asked, with a mouthful of ice cream when he finally looked up. Shawn's stillness was confused him.

"No," Shawn said, looking up and forcing a smile.

Gus swallowed a mouthful of Triple Fudge Ripple. "What's the problem?" He raised an eyebrow. "Was the crime scene that terrible?"

Shawn shrugged. Gus noticed he had his iphone with its green Psych skin out on the desk in front of him.

"You didn't get to chat up Juliet as much as you wanted? Is that why you're down?"

Shawn pursed his lips and scrunched his eyebrows, then huffed. "No, I didn't. She was working. Usually we can get into a rhythm, but with Lassie not there—"

"Detective Lassiter wasn't there?" Gus interrupted. "Isn't that one of his big cases?"

Shawn smirked. "You didn't notice, 'cause you were out of there in a blur. I'd almost forgotten what a chicken you were." He raised an eyebrow. "Almost."

Gus frowned. "Nothing wrong with not wanting to look at some poor dead girl." He wrinkled his nose. "I can't believe you stayed as long as you did."

"Yeah," Shawn muttered, distracted. He looked back down at the phone.

Gus stood up and took his empty bowl to the sink. Running water in it, he watched Shawn study the phone as he were expecting it to ring any second. He sighed, thinking back to earlier at the station. "I wish you would have told me ahead of time you were planning on an extra show for Internal Affairs, Shawn. I had nothing prepared— I felt like an idiot."

Gus watched a smile bloom across Shawn's lips. It seemed this was one of the many things Shawn lived for— making Gus into a fool. He shrugged. "Didn't plan it— it was complete improv."

Gus snorted. "I don't know why you bother. You saw how 'grateful' Lassiter was afterwards."

Shawn shrugged again. "It was just as much to help Jules and make me look good in front of the Chief. Well, it was really more so to help Jules— and to force Lassie into doing us a favor at the most inopportune moment." He grinned. "You like that, don't you?"

Gus turned off the water. "I guess. But he doesn't even know what you—" Gus stopped, pursing his lips. "Wait a second, I don't even know. You said you were going to tell me." He waited. "Tell me."

Shawn flicked his eyes back to the phone, then forced out another smile. "Yeah, about that," he began, then sighed. _You don't want to know. _

When Shawn said nothing, Gus stepped on his thoughts. "Did you do something bad, Shawn?" he accused. "Something that's going to get us in trouble with the police? You know how I hate that." Again, he waited. "Shawn?"

Shawn had to physically close his jaw with his hand; his friend had no idea how close his questions were to the something he had actually done.

* * *

It took Carlton a long time to understand the reasons he couldn't move his limbs was not because he had been paralyzed; suffered a severed spinal cord or broken his back or neck, but that his wrists and ankles were being held together with zip ties. He was still lying face down, but now his arms were over his head and his legs stretched out to their length. He could move his toes, and his legs, but not apart besides at the knees. The plastic cut painfully into the bulge of his swollen left ankle, and seemed to be pulled over the area extra tightly. Even the act of brushing his sock covered ankle against the plastic pulled unwilling moisture from his eyes. Lassiter moaned lowly into the floor before becoming aware of the pressure on the back of his head. The area felt wet, but he couldn't tell if it was because his hair was still damp from the rain or because blood had bloomed from a fresh wound. There _was_ something sticky trickling down the back of his neck. . . .

He groaned loudly, unable to recall the details of the fall after letting go of the railing. His knees and palms, he could tell already, bruised a deep shade of maroon, other twinges on various parts of his body brought him newer and newer unease. The pressure increased, teasing him with uncomfortable sleep. Carlton felt like tightening up into a fetal position under a pile of blankets, and sleeping for days, but it seemed the presence of imaginary power tools, a sledgehammer, no, no a battle-ax or a drill— a hand held screwdriver— were burrowing into his brain, chipping away at the bones of his cranium. God, it was awful. His entire body ached; he knew if O'Hara were offering hugs right now he wouldn't turn one or two down.

_O'Hara. Where? Where was she? Why didn't she have his back? Or was she calling for help?_

_You came here alone, you idiot,_ a voice taunted from within his own ears. Lassiter groaned again, more loudly and in self-pity. It was true. He'd made a rookie mistake. Trying to move his wrists brought on the slightest prickle of anxiety— up until this point, he had yet to see the man— the killer— but he had known he was in the building (not just his eyes and ears playing tricks)— but now? He was bound, injured— pretty easy prey. _Yes, Carlton,_ the voice reiterated, _you are an idiot. What if he puts you under his knife? _

Lassiter wasn't out of hope yet— he still had his wits if not his weapons, and he was awake and not yet sliced up. He couldn't judge the seriousness of his head injury or blood loss yet, but at least he still had feeling in bound limbs— and could use them to bash or kick accordingly.

He heard footsteps, the slow approach of a measured steps, a clack of boots across the dirty floor. They were coming from the direction of some of the shadows he could see in front of him when he lifted his head. It ached to move; his twisted ankle protested as he tried to shift his weight; he tried to rollover onto his back, but even the slightest inclination in either direction tightened the muscles from his waist to his armpits with a blinding searing; maybe it was best to wait. Like this, Lassiter could do nothing but wait anyway until the human figure got closer. Even craning his neck a few inches from the floor made him dizzy; he lowered, too anxious for patience. The zip ties cut into his wrists; he realized how vulnerable he was. Too dangerous; he should have known better.

When steps got closer, Lassiter forced his chin to stay in line with his forearms and pressed his eyes to stay alert. He hoped that the approaching figure was someone who could help him, but he was more than suspicious that it was the person who had tied him up. He gingerly raised his head a little further, shifting his eyes in the direction of the footsteps.

The figure arrived into the dusty light and when Lassiter could see who he was dealing with, he got a hot, prickling punch to the neck, a searing like fireworks crackling into his throat. This was the man— dark haired with the blue jeans and the red flannel he'd caught a fleeting glimpse of— he had tanned skin, a rugged complexion from long hours— years— in the sun— his hair a loose black coil that framed his whole head and tripped a bit down to his neckline. He was clean shaven, with flat brown eyes that still held a charmer's sensibility, a strong jaw line, angler but small nose, a wide brow and medium sized full lips. He was both striking in appearance and the ordinary looking— with muscular, veiny arms— the sleeves of the flannel had been pushed up to his elbows— and a bulging chest which strained against the white t-shirt he wore beneath the flannel. His hands were also weathered— no, hidden, by dusty brown work gloves. His age, Carlton would guess from this distance of about six feet away, to be about mid-thirties, likely no older than 35.

He stopped just three feet away, whistling as he appraised Lassiter's form. Lassiter held still, but couldn't help but feel unnerved by the way this man was looking him over— _as if, as if—_

"Well, isn't this bittersweet?" the man's low, rasping voice asked. He licked his lips. "Razor blades and lemon juice, mighty fine."

Lassiter froze, the muscles in his stomach and legs tightening one by one, then his shoulders and biceps followed suit. The hiss was of course familiar— the tone of amusement the same. _Figures, didn't it?_ That he had talked O'Hara out of checking this out— his paused, mid-shudder. _What if _she_ had come here instead of him, alone? If she had been the one who— _It sickened him to think of her this way, waking up to a stranger's voice intoning a shaky madness with a drawl like molasses. _You idiot,_ he reminded himself angrily. _O'Hara would _never_ enter a situation like this alone. You taught her, after all. . . . _He sighed to himself, as if he were one to "talk".

The man allowed a low whistle, looking over his shoulder in the direction behind him. "It's somthin', ain't it, out there?" He turned his head slowly back towards Lassiter, fixing him with a teasing gaze that actually chased a shiver down his spine. Lassiter lowered his head back to the floor, uncaring that his chin was touching the cold surface. It was putting a strain on him, just raising his head and shoulders that little bit, and he sensed that the man had some little story to tell that Carlton needn't be that alert for. "Yes, siree," the man continued, shuffling. "Out there, they really took some care— supposed to be a facade for a movie, from what I heard of local gossips. Supposed to look kinda haunting, but stunning— but they lost their budget and never got to do the inside— the place where I've got you now."

Lassiter flinched, then cursed himself for the small action. Just because things looked very bad didn't mean he still couldn't get himself free. Yes, he needed to remind himself of this. But when he absently scratched his ear against his armpit, pain flared up to his wrists and down to his lower back, throwing him for a second. His breath came out harshly into the floor. The man was still talking but Lassiter was numbly aware that he'd skipped over consciousness for a few seconds.

"Now, I have looked through your credentials, Dee-tect-ive Carlton Lassiter, badge number 856-SBPD," the voice continued, each word enunciated with the husky rasp of a smoker's cough, or of a man accustomed to yelling to be clearly heard across a range over the distance of hundreds of feet. He added extra e's, pronounced his s's slow like hisses, paused in multi-syllabic words to emphasize their beginnings and make the last parts _hush_. Despite the wavy dreamlike quality of his sentences, they were each brushed with a harshness, though some would go no higher than a whisper, they were said this way to edge into a person, to separate skin, to cut. "And I have confiscated your weaponry. Got some shiny pieces in your arsenal, well, I've got 'em now."

Fear ran up Carlton's spine, using one of his ears as a passageway into his brain. _He's got my Glock .45, he knows my name. He's—_

A cold, heavy blade pressed against the back of his neck, forcing his throat back against the hard floor. "Just one taste?" the man's voice asked, though Lassiter had no idea what that meant— and he had no desire to know. "Yes, I think so." Lassiter bit his lip as the blade with no hesitation sliced into the skin just below his hairline. It was just a small thing, he was sure, but the suddenness of it brought some moisture to his eyes— less than tears but a definite quick shock— why was the predator acting so quickly? Hadn't the marks on the victims suggested—?

He wasn't at all prepared for what followed— the man's breath, then _tongue_ on the back of his neck— Lassiter recoiled, forgetting his head injury and the bruising to his battered body in the fall down the stairs. He tried to jerk away, not realizing the sensation was long gone, and the killer was chuckling. Lassiter's stomach punched up with cold dread— what the _hell_ had he gotten himself into? He had not done this to the other victims, otherwise, they would have had his DNA on file four bodies ago.

He toed Lassiter's ribs with his black leather boot until he had the steal tip wedged underneath Lassiter's stomach. He shoved Lassiter roughly onto his back; Lassiter groaned again, dropping his arms painfully to his chest.

"You could say that you hurt yourself enough already, friend?" the man said with the slightest of Southwestern drawls, looking down at Lassiter from his full height, which Carlton couldn't gauge. "This is the man who's come gunning for me? Ha."

Lassiter was not yet ready to form any words. He lay there as still as possible, even as the man squatted down and drew the low gleaming blade of the hunting knife under Carlton's collarbone. "Name's Saul," the man said, holding Carlton's eyes as he cut. Lassiter winced and released the slightest breath, his eyes stinging but that was all. The blade was sharpened, would or could slice the toughest skin as if it weren't a shield for human bones and organs but something necessary but insubstantial in small doses, like air or water. It was one long slice to make that thin ribbon of red. "No go, lawman?" the man taunted. He poked the tip of the blade under Lassiter's chin. Carlton watched him, the way his movements jerked, as if he were watching time-lapse photography rather than real time action. As soon as the killer had moved, Lassiter wondered slowly why he had not reacted more, or tried to bash the man's gut with his hands. Due time; his aching brain was making it hard to think.

He tried his words. "You sick sonofa—" he breathed harshly, his voice breaking.

"Now, now, lawman, that ain't no way to talk to me." The man emphasized his sentence with a sharp twist of his wrist; Lassiter winced as the blade bit into his skin again. Another small cut. He smiled. "Old tales, is all," he began, still holding the knife to Lassiter's throat to keep him still. "Passed down from son to son to son. Taste the blood of the man who's come in for the kill, see how sweet it tastes. The more bitter the blood, the harder the kill— but not the fight, you understand."

Lassiter risked small movement of his chin, a shake of the head, no. His chin was already cut. The man chuckled. "But you're brave, lawman, I'll give you that. To track me down and come here lonesome." He pulled the knife from Lassiter's throat. "And don't you try to mumble out a bluff, 'cause I know it'd be a bluff, Dee-tech-tive. I know the Calvary is you."

Lassiter stared back, again unable to speak. His heart was beating fast, and he'd parted his lips to release their tiny breaths, but a darkened anxiety was creeping coldly from his insides. It wasn't defined as all out fear until Lassiter heard his captor say, "Maybe this time, I chose not to pierce your heart." He took a playful jab in the air towards Lassiter's chest. "Maybe this time, I'll eat it instead"— Lassiter's eyes shot wide open, he couldn't help himself, a sound of muted pain mewing under his tongue— "eat your heart, see if tastes as bittersweet as your blood."

He'd heard worse things, right? Much worse? Horrible, perverted threats, such as these? _Just walk it off, Carlton,_ he ordered himself, putting on his strongest suit of mental armor. _No way this creep will break me._

"Because you're formidable, I can tell," Saul continued. "Worthy of the fight— not so easily scarred or breakable as the others were. The tales my granddad used to tell that his granddad use to tell— the stronger the man, the more potent his blood." He studied Lassiter with eyes as black as coal; Lassiter couldn't make out the pupils in this limited light, giving his captor a more demonic air. "The weaker the man, you see, the more blood he needs— good blood to fill up a wicked heart."

_The weaker the man, the more blood he needs._ _Was this his explanation, his confession?_ Lassiter stared back, his mouth fixed in a tight line, incredulous. He was annoyed at himself for his earlier reaction. He pressed against his bonds, looking for a weak spot, any give at all. It didn't matter, they were only a minor hindrance. Lassiter knew he could get out of them, as soon as the back of his head stopped burning long enough for him to formulate a plan of escape.

"If what my granddad's granddad said's true, then, if I drink your blood and upon your death, I will take your strength into me." He related this story as if were only tall tales, but there was a deep air of serious belief to his words. Lassiter realized he couldn't wait long, burning pain or not, he needed to get himself away from this maniac.

Lassiter tried to sit up; both his back and stomach protesting, but he managed halfway before his captor's boot caught him square in the chest. It hurt too much to fight; no, there was another reason he lied down like a dog, right? Scowling at that thought, he tried again, only to take a mild kick to the throat. Now, it hurt too much. Maybe as soon as he caught his breath. . . .

The look in his captor's eyes seemed to taunt: "Don't fight it, don't even try." Lassiter, stubborn, moved. He coughed, fighting for breath.

"Lie down or the next goes to your head," Saul warned him. "I'd like to use this now, not while you're getting shut eye." He bounced the curved tip of the blade off his index finger and thumb, just for show.

"You can't keep me here," Carlton blurted out, sweat, he now noticed uncomfortably, collecting on his palms and fingers. Out of the corner of his right eye, he watched Saul drag his black boot along the floor, parking his toe against the instep of his other one. Carlton turned his head slightly, realizing Saul had his muscles poised for just such a kick to his skull. And with his reaction time slowed, Lassiter doubted himself at this moment that he could move out of the way in time. And he didn't want to be unconscious for whatever lay ahead, even though his worries of what that could be were getting the better of him. Carlton lowered his back to the floor, but drew his legs towards his chest, just in case he got the chance to kick.

"I think I can," Saul challenged. "I've kept others before you."

"So, you admit it?" For a few unsteady seconds, the rugged, husky man blurred into two figures; Lassiter blinked repeatedly until his vision cleared.

Saul chuckled. "I know you slipped on some of my last's blood on the stairs. Now she was a pretty thing, a real looker, you see." His eyes gleamed over Lassiter. "Now, 'course, I needed to fix that." He raised his eyebrows, studying Lassiter. "Though I ain't needing to do that your face— I already got all the answers I want about just the kind of man you are."

Lassiter did not react to that outwardly, but a sense of horror entered through what he'd thought was a barricaded door in his mind. A part of him wanted to yell, but he kept his mouth firmly shut. He was in this alone— his choice, his mess, and it was up to him if he could stay alive. A shudder escaped.

"I wasn't expecting you so soon, Dee-tech-tive," he said, using the hilt of the knife to scratch at an itch under the sleeve of his flannel. "But I was dee-lighted, nonetheless. I suspected some officera the law was abound to come— and imagine my luck that my iron and steel walks right to me." He smiled in the way of a leer, always, always looking too long; Lassiter wondered if he had done this with the others— the corpses he and O'Hara and Vick had seen arranged picturesquely. _No, you can't think like that,_ he told himself firmly. _You're not going to become this killer's latest._ Lassiter heard the sharp silence around Saul's footfalls, and wondered vaguely if he screamed— if anyone— _Stop that. Yes, you got yourself into this mess but it doesn't mean it's the end. Just because you're alone, and no one seems to know you are here—_ Lassiter sneered at himself. _Great pep talk, I feel so reassured._ Though maybe it was better to stay on edge with a familiar paranoia as his best companion.

"I had only just returned," Saul continued, "when I caught sight of you— it was quick, but I was enticed by the fire of your stance." Again, he smiled. "I knew I'd done right."

Again Lassiter heard the leering silence, but this time the silence in between Saul's words, a pause after "just returned". _Just returned, just returned. _Lassiter turned the words over in his head. _Where had the killer just returned from?_ His last— his last kill was a woman, yes? The blond, the nineteen year old runaway? Lassiter forced himself to study the man before him, noting his relaxed posture, his features at rest— in spite of some eagerness in his eyes at having captured him— it was as if the man had recently had some need— or pleasure— satisfied. Carlton turned his head away, a sneer of being sickened riding his lips. This was not a new concept or theory— many criminals— murderers— took pleasure in their crimes, feeling sated when they were done, though like any pleasure or need, they weren't forever slacked, and required more. Criminals, career criminals especially, seemed to carry this perverted human condition, greed, blood, death— always, always more.

_The— shoe._ He recalled— was it real?— the faintest imprint of a flat sandal, pressed into the metal at the top of the stairs, a decisive step though there was a still wet pool just one step below. Lassiter worked hard to drop the wide look from his eyes. The shoe outside— was the killer's souvenir. Or was it a tool to get him to come in— that invisible bait he'd been following, sniffing out the real reason he was here?

But that wasn't right— hair, blond hair was what the killer had taken. The shoe— He had to bite his lips and tongue hard to keep himself from asking the question— _who, who have you just— where have you just returned from?_ Lassiter felt the weight of his legs and remembered he still bore a well of inner strength. He was going to need this— and took comfort in the weight of his own limbs.

"I'll break your legs too," Saul told him, tilting towards Lassiter's drawn in knees. He spoke as if he could read Lassiter's thoughts. His voice was husky and rasped on a few of the words. "That won't taint your blood, none."

"Burn in hell," Lassiter retorted. He wasn't going to let this man scare him— not too much. After all, he was just a man, right? Or was he a deliberate monster?

"If I thought it might get me somewhere, I might hold you for ransom," Saul continued, wistful. "Use you to pay my way onto the next— but I know they'd never pay to get you back."

Lassiter bit the inside of his cheek; that remark stung; who would pay to get him back after the way he'd behaved today? The choices he'd made, puffing out his chest though he'd had several warnings— hadn't he been trained better, seasoned better? Why would he ignore the creeper feelings? Because he'd been on a one man mission to prove he was still a "real man". That was why he ignored the sensation of eyes on the back of his skull, eyes like in a painting that followed him no matter where he looked or went? He knew he deserved _that look_ from Vick and even a smack to the back of his head from O'Hara. He had indulged in some paranoid thinking, something as detective he should never do, but seemed prone towards at times.

Part of it, however, wasn't even his fault— but he knew he could still get blamed for ending up abducted. He'd walked right into this shit, after all. But Lassiter knew that wasn't the reason the Santa Barbara Police Department wouldn't pay his ransom— they were under a strict "no deals with terrorists or extortionists or abductors"— at least when it came to their own. With civilians, it was the same, but they had negotiators for that. Should this become a hostage situation, then— it would still likely end in a rain of bullets or tear gas. Besides, they'd take out a killer. Why would they even hesitate? Lassiter was an idiot, after all, and a weak shield— _stop that, right now,_ he growled at himself. Thinking like that wasn't going to help, and his department would not just scrap him and move onto the next, even if it meant taking out a murderer. _Would they? No, you idiot,_ he snarled at that worried voice inside. _They'd— they will, if it comes to that— do everything in their power to ensure you end up safe. Because, for fuck's sake, how else are they going to kick your ass for all this? _

Lassiter pressed his head against the floor, just now realizing he'd been tensed, holding his head, neck and shoulders several inches off the floor, which was unnecessary, because he could see Saul clearly and Saul had been leaned over him when it came to speaking. Saul liked his audience and to him, wandering around with his back to his captive while he spoke just seemed impolite. Lassiter relaxed in the slightest, now that he'd reconciled his thoughts, should it come to his getting rescued. There was still the faintest chance he'd manage to claw his way out of this— but he couldn't leave here without taking Saul down somehow. At least with a hard knock to the head, and some restraint to something solid— this killer could not go free.

"Though, if I play my cards right, after you, I ain't gonna need no more." He held Carlton's eyes until Lassiter looked away. Carlton felt Saul's continued look, and forced himself not to look back and curse out the killer. He whipped his face in a flinch as Saul squatted next to him, poking at his collarbone with the tip of the weapon. "I was just playin' with you, lawman," Saul told him, pressing the blade into the earlier wound he'd cut. Lassiter bit his lip hard, making no sound. "You're worth more than cash to me— hell, then any other's blood." Saul traced the blade along the lines he'd opened slowly, keeping his eyes steady on Lassiter's face. Lassiter kept his head turned to the side, his eyes fixed on the shadows. He winced as he felt more of his skin part, but had no choice but to let Saul do what he wanted. But he wasn't about to—

Saul yanked the side of the blade across the rest of the wound, jabbing at Lassiter's right armpit. Lassiter's mouth opened in a gasp— and it seemed to satisfy his captor. Saul sat back with a chuckle. "None of them were worthy, lawman. The more blade did play, the more of their lives I found out— what I didn't need to know. I thought, when I looked at them— I _could_ eat their hearts." Saul got back to his feet and went back to his slow pacing around Lassiter, never taking his eyes off Lassiter's face. "With them, all of them, I had to be the seeker. But you came of your own accord."

_I did not—_ Lassiter wanted to blurt out. He wanted to give the detail that an anonymous tip had led him to this so-called fate— but again, he kept his mouth shut. The time for reasoning and insults would be more effective once he was back on his feet with his gun back in his hands. For now, he'd have to accept that Saul chilled him more with each new spill of phrases.

Saul grinned down at him as if he could read Lassiter's mind. "Yes, siree. I must tell you it gave me a thrill callin' in about m'self." He took in a deep breath calmly. "Had no idea if anyone would come— lots of people been lookin', but none of 'em know what they were looking for."

"You—?" Lassiter blurted out, stunned. Another chill ran through him, and he felt acutely aware of the shape of his own body lying against the floor. He hadn't thought of her in a long time, but a memory of O'Hara edged back, the one of her standing in front of his desk in the office, her small face serious. She was going to come out here— he felt it with dis-ease— if he hadn't swooped in and used the information of learning of the tip to distract the Chief from yelling at him. O'Hara would have— For the first time, Lassiter's stomach tumbled with nausea, certain he would throw up the nearly empty contents of his stomach. It was physically hurting him to think of her in this situation— in his place. And this, too, stunned him— but he knew he never wanted to see her get hurt.

"Hurts, don't it?"

Lassiter was certain the look of pain must be written all over his face for Saul to make such a comment, but Saul had no idea, he was sure, of exactly what kind of pain Lassiter was thinking about. Though his ego fed him the slightest whisper that he'd done an unwittingly heroic thing by coming here instead of O'Hara, it was tainted by the fact that he'd ultimately been stupid and careless and was now in the hands of a serial killer. _O'Hara wouldn't be,_ he reasoned. She was smarter than he often gave her credit for; if she was unnerved, she would have called in units _before_ entering, wouldn't she? Or would she feel she could handle things on her own as he had, or feel that she had something to prove— not just to herself, but to him?

He felt miserable, considering these thoughts of her possible hesitation because of some insistence she might have— that he must have forced upon her through all these years— that she need to stay on top of her game and always please him— never disappoint him. Yet, here he was, having completely failed _her_— unable to live up to his own expectations and lead by example. No, he couldn't picture her getting into the kind of trouble he'd let himself get into— because, unlike him, she did her thinking with brain. _I think with my head,_ he amended to himself, _but sometimes I don't. _Lately, at least today, he'd been too busy thinking with his pride, with some convoluted sense of honor— convinced that he was still working side by side with justice as he'd performed each of the day's small actions— even the one where he'd accosted Spencer for the kid's usual sniveling.

Still, it bothered him— IA had let him off much easier than he probably deserved, whether their accusations of his gunplay were justified or not.

Lying on his back, Lassiter looked to his side, feeling new sickness come to his mouth when he caught sight of a 2x4 on the floor, one of its rectangular ends blood stained. Saul caught him looking it over, and chuckled. "You looked as if you needed some help— thought for certain that fall was gonna kill you though."

Lassiter kept his eyes on the tool as Saul spoke. "Couldn't just have you tumbling off those stairs mildly unscathed— did I brain the back of your head too hard, would you say?" He tipped an imaginary cowboy hat in Lassiter's direction, then wiped his hands together with a sharp clap.

Carlton scowled, forcing himself to glance back at Saul. "Just because you got the better of me for now doesn't mean you're not going to end up in a pool of blood yourself."

Saul chuckled. "Yes, siree, I knew I was gonna like you. I knew you was gonna be the one." He sniffed. "Might not be as much to look at as those pretty young things with no souls, but you came here, and you chased me."

Lassiter wondered if he could move fast enough to get that 2x4 into his bound hands. Eyeing it, he thought it could be useful, but didn't doubt that Saul would kick him in the head as he'd promised if he thought Lassiter was getting too riled up. Maybe for now, he'd have to fight back with only his words.


	5. Chapter 4: He Bit My Lip & Drank My War

**Chapter Four: He Bit My Lip And Drank My War, From Years Before**

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Author's Note: Thanks to everyone for your continued support! I had terrible fears that I was going to scare everyone away when I changed the rating and the subject matter took its scary nose dive into the graphic violence sector, so I can't tell you how much it means to me to still have you wonderful, loyal readers/ reviewers. Your feedback and comments mean the world to me and I'm so grateful that you are still out there! Thanks again. :D

Disclaimer: I don't own Gum Drops, Reese's Pieces, references to _The Sixth Sense_, John Wayne, the Manson family or Victoria Parker (or any other character in the _Psych_ universe, of course.)

Minor references to/ spoilers for: Season One's _Pilot, Spellingg Bee_ and _Scary Sherry: Bianca's Toast_, Season Two's _Gus's Dad May Have Killed An Old Guy_, and Season Three's _Daredevils!_ and _Lassie Did A Bad, Bad Thing_.

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* * *

"It's nothing," Shawn said firmly, amazed at his powers of persuasion. He still had it, even over the one person who should know him best. He was a little suspicious that Gus let it go so easily, only prodding him with a few repeated words: "Shawn? Shawn? Shawn? Tell me right now. Shawn?". Shawn was also amazed that he didn't need to bribe Gus with the promise of sweets to throw him off the trail of Shawn's— well, his what? There wasn't actually any _proof_ that Shawn had caused—

_Well,_ Shawn thought, _there was proof._ Or was there? Those things weren't recorded, were they? But there wasn't any in the sense that Lassiter had actually— No. It couldn't be possible. Anyway, Jules had said that Lassiter was probably working on another case.

But he couldn't help but flash back to what she had said at the scene. _"He always answers his phone."_ And she had said it with the smallest bit of worry; but then she didn't know anything for certain.

And she didn't know anything for certain because Shawn had received the text message meant for her. Which could only mean—

"You _will_ tell me later, Shawn," Gus said, not as a question. He sighed, looking at his watch before getting up.

"No, I won't," Shawn teased.

"Yes, you will," Gus repeated, sounding tired.

"No, I won't. Where are you going?" Shawn asked.

"I told you, I've got to go into work today." He raised his eyebrows, staring intently at his friend. "Company wide staff meeting? Mandatory? Ringing any bells?"

Shawn stared back blankly. "Wait, tell me in your Jamaican accent."

"No," Gus refused, curling his lip. "Sometimes you amaze me, and not in a good way."

"You're leaving me?" He jumped up. "But— but we didn't even eat yet!"

"I ate; where were you?" Gus said, pulling his keys out of his pocket.

"But you didn't partake of any of the greasy foods of street vendors. Come on, dude. You take this second job of yours way too seriously!"

Gus sighed. _"This_ is my second job," he said, pointing to the floor, then the ceiling, then circling his finger around the office for emphasis. "If you haven't noticed, my job at Central Coast is my bread and butter. Yours too, since I do pay for everything when it comes to you."

"But Gus, who cares about bread and butter?" Shawn had resorted to small jumps next to his desk.

Gus pursed his lips. "You do, for one."

"But Psych is your pineapple flavored Gum Drops and Reese's Pieces," Shawn whined. His jumping had changed to impatient shuffling.

"Great, so I get cavities and I don't have a dental plan because Psych's dental plan is 'don't get cavities'." He rolled his eyes at Shawn. Gus made a face. "Speaking of pineapple, Shawn— you do know those cough drops are disgusting, right?"

An amused gleam passed through Shawn's eyes. "Of course I know. Why do you think I gave them to you?"

Gus actually laughed, but it was humorless, and then he flicked his nose with his thumb. "You're kind of sick, you know. And don't mean that it a cool way."

"Yes, you do," Shawn countered, following Gus to the door.

"No, I don't," Gus tossed over his shoulder.

"Yes, you do," Shawn insisted.

"No, I really don't," Gus retorted.

"Oh, but I think you do."

"Goodbye, Shawn. And please don't call me fifty times while I'm away."

"But you want me to."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do!"

"Shawn!"

* * *

She wasn't certain what it was about this latest one, but the sight, it seemed, had taken its time to seep into her consciousness. Maybe it was that this woman was her age, a young professional on the rise— her star tarnished so suddenly, snuffed out.

"Detective?" Vick startled her, making Juliet jump. She leaned forward on her chair, pressing her palm against her forehead with a suppressed groan. She didn't need Vick accusing her of staring off into space with another of this maniac's victims in their hands.

Especially since her partner was still not picking up his phone.

"Yes, Chief?" Juliet responded, blinking a few times and then giving her full attention to Vick.

Karen studied her for a moment. "Is this case getting to you, is it too much?"

"What?" Juliet asked, her eyebrows pulling together. "No."

"Because if it is—"

"It's not. I can handle this."

Karen nodded, noticing the serious shift in Juliet's eyes. "We've identified the victim through finger prints; she was a local who lived here all her life. I need you to research her family, if she had any— they should be notified Asap."

"For a positive ID?"

Vick nodded, adding that she was certain the woman's family should be told because they might want to know about their daughter sister mother wife whatever. Vick wasn't certain she liked this little bit of Lassiter's personality on O'Hara— sometimes he came off as too unfeeling, even for all his strengths. She didn't want to see O'Hara become too much like him, though sometimes when you worked with people nearly 24/7 or, on double shifts, 48/14, personality traits of the other became harder and harder to ignore. Vick didn't mind that the two, after a rocky beginning, had become more used to the other and seemed to be absorbing the mostly good things about the each other— well, it really wasn't her place to make a comment about it.

"As soon as you've contacted my family, come to my office. I think we should go over the similarities again— and you can fill Lassiter in when he gets back."

As Vick strode off, Juliet stood, more than tempted to call after her about what Vick had said to Lassiter after she left the office. She bit her lip, watching her superior's back. This was so unlike him; even when he was in the most foul of moods, he still recognized that he had a job to do. He would do it on the upswing of fury, with threats, mild roughness in the treatment of suspects and his weapons making quicker appearances all in escalation fitting of his anger. But no matter what, he was there. He would be pissed that he missed this recent crime scene, as pissed as Vick was ought to be that he missed it.

Vick was nearly gone; should she say something? Or would Vick snap that she was not Lassiter's keeper; if anything, that job fell to his partner?

Sometimes, some of the lines of this job— well, of partnership, were confusing to her. There was the time when Vick had seemingly ordered her find a girlfriend for Lassiter— _well,_ she recalled, _he did need serious help in that department._ And that hadn't been as stressful as she'd originally thought, though Carlton was clumsy at best when it came to talking to a woman who was not Victoria Parker. Still, Juliet amended, he was getting better at talking to her in a friendly capacity, and even to the Chief in a similar, yet more respectful way. He'd made strides, definitely. Juliet smiled to herself, knowing she was doing her part for her partner's sake— even if he had a hard time expressing his gratitude. She reflected that he had become more open throughout the years, talking to her as a person and not as some pitiful child he was stuck baby-sitting.

Funny, because she had regarded him in a similar capacity when they were first assigned as partners after her transfer. She knew his type well; practically all the male detectives in Miami walked around as if they still had something to prove, and were jerks through and through. She had been lucky there, paired up with the only other female detective in the department. Well, water under the bridge now, as well as her very first year as Lassiter's junior partner. Juliet had never thought, though she had hoped, that she and her new partner were going to immediately get along.

But she was secretly grateful to that crazy woman, that Detective Goochberg, who'd worked her mojo and scared the hell out of Lassiter. And she was also grateful to Vick, who had made the "incident", as Lassiter referred to it, that much worse by pointing out that he was on the fast track to become just like Goochberg in a few short years. Juliet, Shawn and Gus had overheard the whole thing since Vick's office door had been wide open. Lassiter, going in, had no idea what he was walking into when he'd asked the Chief what awful thing he could have done to deserve something like that.

The change didn't come over night, but little by little, Juliet found her partner catching himself snapping at her mid-snap, first saying nothing and then, later, grumbling an almost audible apology. She let him warm up to her in his own time, knowing the impossibilities of getting water from a stone. Or blood. Though his accepting her invite to her O'Hara traditional family holiday festivities hadn't gone at all as she had planned, she was still glad she had extended the invitation and that he had actually shown up. He was, she knew, a lonely man. She wanted to be his friend if he was willing to be her friend back— and it was turning out to be a mutual relationship.

He was still grumpy and angry, and today, it seemed, had not been a good one for him. During the IA meeting, Juliet found herself a little shocked at their approach (whether it was deserved or not) and had felt guilty for not making a stand for Lassiter. _Though the Chief had not either, _she reflected. And, she'd agreed that their comments on his somewhat rumpled appearance had been too low a blow, but she wished that her partner hadn't stormed out. Something must have really been bothering him for him to behave like that.

_I should have made a point to ask,_ she thought, though she wasn't certain if this would have been a good idea. Lassiter had been acting funny around her today, asking her questions about her fragrance and blushing when it seemed she might be standing too close. Juliet wrinkled her nose, hoping that her partner hadn't developed some kind of romantic feelings for her. She had meant what she said on Day One, she did not approve of intradepartmental relationships. Besides, she knew she could never see Carlton as anything more than her partner and her friend, and she was happy with those relationships as they were. (_Though he could always use a little more help in the "what it means to be a friend" department,_ she laughed to herself. Still, she was proud of him; he'd come a long way.)

As she thought more about it, she figured Lassiter's odd behavior towards her today wasn't some sign of budding feelings. If so, he would have made more of an effort to smile, and would have fallen all over himself trying to say something witty. Juliet smiled, relieved. Lassiter was extra grumpy, having a rough day and looking towards her in their established platonic capacity for a friend. Again, she felt proud of him for all his strides and felt selfish for not recognizing that he might have needed her a little more today; sometimes, it was just hard to tell when he wanted a hug and when he wanted to be left alone.

Even so . . . was now one of those times? Did he want to be left alone or could he use a friend? Or did he just want to vent his frustrations at being yelled at by Vick so soon after the IA meeting? There were still times he could be nasty, transferring his anger to her without any apologies, but those times were less and less. _Hmm._ Juliet chewed her lip, then picked up her phone. Bad day or not, Lassiter still had a job to do and even if he did go off to sulk somewhere, he should have come back already. It made much more sense to her that he was out checking the lead to some other case . . . but he still _always_ answered his phone.

She dialed his number, waiting to hear his grouchy, "Lassiter."

_"You have reached the voice mail of Head Detective Carlton Lassiter. I'm not available—"_

"Dammit," Juliet said, pressing the "end call" button. She was surprised when she glanced at the time; it was going on two hours since she'd last seen him. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to ask the Chief if he'd said something to her about going somewhere. Juliet couldn't remember Carlton telling her he had an appointment or court appearance or parole hearing or anything of the like that would cause his absence.

She started away from her desk only to be turned back when her cell phone rang. She allowed herself some premature relief, telling herself that she was being silly for having given in to any bit of worry. Juliet scooped up the phone, pressing the "answer" button before getting a good look at the screen. "Hello?"

* * *

It was hard to tear his eyes from the 2x4; it could hold the silent key to his memory in his fall as well as aid in his possible escape, or at the very least, be the tool for his beat down of this killer. _Who am I kidding?_ Lassiter asked himself, gingerly moving his head back to stare at the ceiling, though looking upwards brought on some more of that reverse vertigo— With an inner sigh, Lassiter dropped his eyes to the space in front of him.

Though he hadn't seen his weapons since Saul had claimed he'd taken them, Lassiter could feel his shoulder holster was empty of his Glock .45, and the Glock .17 he kept strapped to his ankle was missing as well. Even the night stick, the small pocket knife his surrogate father had given him on his twelfth birthday, and the small vile of mace with its easy-touch spray trigger were missing from his belt— he knew their weight and felt naked without them, as well as without his badge. Or if not naked, then vulnerable. The knife was more of a sentimental item than an effective weapon; his guns were his real security blanket. He had to get them back.

_He took everything— No, he hasn't taken everything yet,_ Lassiter reminded himself in this moment of weakness. Yes, he'd been stripped of his tools but not of his wits, not entirely. And his life, he still had that. But what he wouldn't give for the familiar weight of one of those guns—

He had little explanation for the killer's sudden game change, and he wasn't certain what was bull and what wasn't. Lassiter scraped together some words; they felt thin in the air. "Why are you— why— are you here?"

Saul rasped a small laugh. He paced slowly around Lassiter as he spoke. "Don't get me wrong, I loved New Mexico," he confided, "but there's only so much stale blood I could take. Didn't find my heart there, no siree. And before that, Nevada— I really thought she was gonna be the one. But turns out it was sweet, sweet Cali— shoulda known it from the start, shouldn't I? Though I was starting to banish my hopes. Yes, I've been looking for my heart for a while— granddad's tales told me—"

"Let me guess, you come from a long line of killers, like the Manson family—" Lassiter had no chance to even tense his muscles before the killer dropped down, kneeling next to his torso. The rest of his angry words were stopped by a sharp smack to his cheek.

"You ain't got no business talking ill of my granddad, of my kin," Saul spat, pressing the Bowie's blade against Lassiter's forehead with intent to cut in between its lines. He looked angry enough to do it, as if the slap hadn't been enough. Saul moved the tip of the blade to Lassiter's hair line and made a small incision. Lassiter gritted his teeth, still partially reeling from the slap; he'd tasted blood in his mouth.

"So," Lassiter continued softly, "it's true."

"My kin's of no concern to you," Saul said, fixing his eyes on Lassiter's. "You mention them again and I'll make you real sorry. And it's too soon for that."

Lassiter gulped down his "I'm not scared of you" because he knew he couldn't get it out in a way to be convincing. He tried a different approach, testing the waters to see if Saul wanted to discuss his victims— or the very least, their deaths. "Your latest— what was she to you?" He groaned after an ache flared in the back of his head.

Saul shook his head, seeming amused at Lassiter's clumsy attempts at speaking. "Nothing— she was nothing. She was a romantic though, taking my hand and holding on tight as if that would prevent me from stabbing this her through the heart."

Lassiter turned his eyes away from Saul's, glancing at his other side. He noticed, for the first time, that he was not near the staircase. In fact, wherever they were resembled more of an open area, dimly lit and scattered with shadows. Lassiter couldn't make out any furniture. He swallowed hard, thinking through how the killer got him here. It would make the most sense that Saul had grabbed Lassiter by the ankles and dragged him here on his face, but there was a possibility, however slim it might be, that he was carried here. Stealing at glance at Saul's muscular arms and torso, it definitely didn't seem impossible.

But why bring him here, tie him up and then leave? Was it for some kind of effect, an issue of control— a show of the shifting of power?

Lassiter didn't doubt that the killer believed himself to have all the control and found his prisoner to be well under it— Lassiter's mouth tightened into a thin line. This situation he was in was temporary— partner or no partner coming for him, Lassiter was resolved to survive this.

He found his breath and gathered his words, trying reason. "It would be in your best interests to—"

Saul stamped his boot on the floor. "Don't you try to talk me outta this. You ain't going anywhere and I ain't about to surrender, lawman." He smiled. "Should you best me fair and square, I'd be hard pressed to ignore that, but you ain't in any position to be making threats."

_Because I've never been overpowered by a killer before?_ Lassiter thought, trying to recollect and order his words. _At least, not like this._ It shouldn't be this difficult; but just how hard had his head been hit? Lassiter had been held at gunpoint before, even knife point, once, when he had been a rookie. His partner at the time, an older male detective with plans to retire, had sat with him while his neck was bandaged— and lectured him about how he sorely needed to be more aware of his surroundings. In truth, it hadn't been his fault, not really— it was a youthful mistake that he made certain to never repeat. Underneath the sheen of the lecture, Carlton recalled his partner's worry; he had been just as upset and fearful that his young partner, whom he was responsible for, had been grabbed and used as a shield for a desperate suspect, as Carlton had been actually being the shield.

But this— had he ever been made the prey of a man consumed with cannibalistic and vampiric acts, insistent of draining his blood and devouring his heart—? He would have to go with a solid "no". Let alone to actually be in the presence of a man such as this, without his partner or a phone or any help on its way. Now his partner was the more youthful one, and had made her share of junior detective mistakes . . . just as he had; it was hard to be pristine, without any faults. Impossible, really. It didn't stop him from kicking himself over and over for putting himself in a such a dangerous situation as if were some kind of super man well equipped to go up against a potential serial killer alone. _You're an ass, just face it, and move on,_ a voice helped. He grumbled at it but had to admit it was right. Self-pity and self-loathing weren't helpful, though he didn't know how to turn either off. He could shuffle them aside, but a small part of his brain clung to them, worried it seemed, that if he banished them, his fear of being stranded here was going to take over completely. Granted, it hadn't happened yet; if he were really afraid to enter a situation, no matter how potentially lethal it could be— he always had overconfidence that he could diffuse whatever sprung up that was negative— save the day without breaking a sweat.

Of course, this didn't mean he was never afraid, or even anxious, from time to time. Busting down a door and identifying himself as police with his weapon drawn and poised gave him a thrill— but mostly boosted his ego because he was never shaky as if he didn't want to look a criminal in the eye or as if he didn't know how to properly hold his weapon— _I'm not a rookie anymore,_ Lassiter thought, frowning to himself at the memory of his clumsy, early days. But still, sometimes he held the anxiety at the base of his throat, keeping it in place by yelling out louder, angrier, if the situation demanded. He never knew if a suspect would try to run or pull a weapon out upon him— or on O'Hara for that matter, and try to use distraction to his or her advantage. He usually thought of himself on constant alert; he thought he had learned his lessons well. But why hadn't he paid more heed to the hairs standing up on the back of his neck, or the obvious choice of entering an unknown, blindly, without any back-up or notification?

Lassiter knew he had been drawn here— lured— and something about the atmosphere and appearance of the buildings couldn't be ignored. Add possible guts and glory, a possible commendation from the Chief, a possible career advancement— Lassiter sighed. One step forward and about 50 in the hole of set backs. If he lived through this, he'd either be confined to desk duty or IA would yank his clearance for sure— _if I life through this. _

A scream welled in the bottom of his throat. It was one more of frustration than pure terror, and he wondered if releasing it would unburden his mind. He considered it, biting his lips. This man above him was of the vicious sort— it may be easy to convince his superiors that he'd unwittingly walked straight into a trap— which was too true— and had become a hostage. But to say any of that meant he would have to admit he'd relinquished control and had still acted on impulse, more a hunch then "instinct"— and had paid dearly for it. Well, if he had to swallow his pride— if he had to choke it down dry, admit he'd become a victim, it might give him some leverage when it came to holding onto his badge.

How could he not have felt the killer watching him? He wasn't perfect, but he usually picked up on these kinds of things— or was that O'Hara who was his extra pair of eyes? His instincts for taking someone down were still as sharp as ever, if there had to be a tackle, he always jumped for it, his fingers tight around his gun, protecting and saving any potential bleeder from harm.

Right? But how was it that he'd let his guard down when it came to watching out for himself? He'd been in danger all along, he knew with a sudden chill. Long before he'd found the shoe, or had been nearly killed by the falling branch. The danger began as soon as he'd parked the car, and taken his first looks at the unknowingly bloody destiny that awaited him.

"Sure, you ain't much to look at," Saul said, though he was looking at Lassiter in that sickening way that turned Lassiter's stomach. It wasn't a look, Lassiter realized, of some kind of dormant romanticism; no, it was something darker, a look that pierced him, saw through he as if he weren't all there— a soul seeking look where the one looking had none of his own and had no clue of what exactly to look for. Another chill went through Lassiter; he felt he could really use the firm but kindly words of his former partner, the older detective who'd not only be able to harness Lassiter's clumsy rookie energy, but had been able to steer him towards the path he'd wanted and keep him in line when he fell out of it. _Funny,_ Lassiter thought. He hadn't thought of his early former partner's guidance in years, but was now seeking out some of his old words as a comfort. It was an action that actually made him sweat with cold; he was giving in to fear.

Lassiter bit his lip hard as Saul's Bowie slid into the crook of his right arm, easily parting the fabric with one twist. Saul didn't hesitate to do the same to Lassiter's skin; another small cut, but it hurt.

"But those, even before I cut 'em up, they weren't really," Saul continued, wiping his knuckles on his jeans. "Some of 'em looked nice, on the outside. Like you probably look nice to any woman, huh?" He pressed the tip of the knife into the small cut, his brown eyes gleaming at the rising gush of red. Lassiter was still, not making a sound. He'd forced himself to study Saul with cold eyes, his thoughts clinging to the underside of his own skin, and holding himself as far as possible from his churning worry. _I need to save my strength. I can't be too scared now— it will deplete all my energy._ If his partner were here— either his old one or his very newest— he would be told to keep hanging on. _Don't give in, Carlton. Don't give in._

Saul sliced the white shirt from the arm of the he'd been cutting up to Lassiter's shoulder, tapping his exposed arm as if searching for a vein.

"What do you really want?" Lassiter asked. He bit his lip again as Saul turned the Bowie away from his arm to press its tip again under his chin.

"You certainly ain't like the others, no sir-ree," Saul said, his eyes flickering over Lassiter's face. His last word was hushed but harsh, and he coughed after uttering it. "Pretty things used to pretty things— but they were much more a worka art after I was done."

_Oh, my god._ Lassiter's eyes closed and he swallowed hard, knowing the act was visible, but also knowing the words he wanted to say needed to remain under his tongue. It was rare that he held back his grievances, often uttering the first callous thing that came to his mind, no matter how insensitive, to suspects and colleagues alike. To dates— he could hear, out of nowhere, O'Hara's voice scolding him as they walked down the hallway of the police station (a past which seemed like it was many years before), _"You told her the dead clown story, didn't you?" _

"You ain't gonna look like no worka art, lawman," Saul told Lassiter, bringing him quickly back to the present. He wore a wolf grin, and his pupils were barely visible in this light. A scowl overtook Lassiter's face, and instead of words he gathered as much saliva under his tongue as he could muster, puckered and spit it.

"You're a sick son of a bitch," Lassiter growled, his nearly helpless rage causing him to twist on the floor. "You're right, I"m not like the others— I came here to arrest your sorry ass and thank the gods of the California death penalty—"

Saul dug the blade harder into Lassiter's skin, the shock of pain making him cry out; remember who he was dealing with, talking to. He could feel a rush of wetness running down his neck. Saul left the spittle on his cheek, using his free hand, balled into a fist, to smash Lassiter's mouth once. The force of the blow jerked Lassiter's head to one side, his ear and temple knocking painfully against the floor. He groaned, but seemed to realize his legs were in the right position to kick his captor. Ignoring how dazed he felt, Lassiter lashed out, catching Saul's stomach.

Saul groaned, losing his balance and toppling to the floor. The blade slid away from Carlton's throat, digging what he was certain was a long line of red into his skin before losing contact with it. "You're a bad thing, lawman," Saul muttered, pawing the ground next to Lassiter so he could get up. Carlton swung his bound feet to his right, his knees catching Saul in the chest. His entire body protested the movement long after it was done; Lassiter was starting to get scared that there wasn't enough adrenaline in the world left to allow him to get out of this position. He squirmed, trying to gather his restrained limbs together enough to sit, and then with any luck, stand. He was doing his best to back away from Saul, or roll away, or twist away, but his muscles had been too wrenched recently for immediate cooperation.

Saul's arm shot out, catching Lassiter's left ankle. He squeezed, gaining his balance and managing to get to his knees, and then yanked Lassiter toward him, feet first.

Carlton was shocked that he could only describe his pain through color, flashes of red and white followed by yawning chasms of black; he eyes shot open, wide, and he clenched his fists to regain the slightest contact to stability. With a yell he assumed was loud, he kicked Saul, another square hit to the killer's chest.

The pain in his ankle, if not other pains too, caused him to black out. He fought it, but the colors were at war and he was caught at the front lines with no weapons to stop either side. He wanted to argue that there was another enemy, one much fiercer than they, but he couldn't. He had to give in.

_Don't give in. . . . _It was the look in his former partner's eyes when the unstable criminal, a guy only a little older than himself then, had grabbed him and pressed the knife to the side of his neck. Carlton could recall the criminal— half of a pair who'd robbed a liquor store while high, who'd shot and killed the owner— by the rancid way he smelled, the sweat of being caught, of being desperate. He hadn't been thinking clearly and grabbing a cop had been his first thought.

Carlton remembered their breaths in the cold night air, how heavy the blade felt and how his partner's eyes had held his like a light or a lifeline. It was, he reflected, the very first time as a cop that he'd ever felt helpless and had been terrified— and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Most of the following years didn't bring the same kind of fear; but there had been times when he'd felt the same even though he had been in the position of negotiator instead of hostage.

"You're wily, ain't you?" Saul said over him, a fistful of Lassiter's hair caught in one of his gloved hands. Lassiter winced, opening his eyes at the tug, rather than the words.

"Go. To hell," Carlton muttered, wincing at another hard tug. The pressure stopped, then he felt the killer ruffle his hair. He stiffened, moving away from Saul's hand. "I hope you die," Lassiter whispered.

"Before you do, or after?" Saul countered, poking Lassiter's right arm with the knife.

"Does it— matter?" Lassiter asked, trying to breathe evenly. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious, but it was apparently long enough for Saul to get the upper hand again. Or so it seemed. The killer was squatting next to him, near his right shoulder. It would be a stretch to kick him again, even with Lassiter's long legs. He was really feeling every bruise, and the pains of his abused knees and the back of his head were starting up with new flares. Lassiter couldn't, at the moment, discern the pain of his ankle; it made him nervous. He noticed he was again flat on his back, and had a sense that the zip ties had been tightened around his limbs. _Don't give up._

Saul laughed, fixing a smile over his lips that Lassiter assumed was some kind of twisted respect. "You got no idea what kinda spell is in that blood of yours, do you? I looked, I chased those little mangy, malnourished vixens, those too well-fed bureaucrats— got nowhere. Not a one of them had the charms— but you, you come sauntering in here like John Wayne revisited— acting not a lick afraid of dying."

Lassiter listened, unable to do anything else as he struggled to find all his limbs and each pain attached to them. "What— what the hell are you talking about?" he spat, having a difficult time following the killer's logic.

Saul pressed down with the blade, making Lassiter tense up as he felt what was likely a small "x" being cut into his skin. "Due time," Saul told him. "You got a right to know, way I see it, since you will be dying at my hand." Saul took the knife out of Lassiter's view, setting it down away from him. Lassiter caught its imagined glint in his mind's eye; he needed to get his hands on that knife. Saul then used his left hand to strip off his right glove, revealing a hand with skin as tanned and weathered as Saul's face. He pressed a fingertip against the "x" he'd cut; Lassiter jerked his arms at the touch. The killer smiled that wolf grin again, bringing the fingertip to his lips, much to Lassiter's horror.

* * *

As Shawn sat in the empty office, he flashed back to the crime scene; the woman on the beach. Great, Gus had only been gone twenty minutes, and he was already feeling so alone that now he was "seeing dead people." He might have laughed, but he really couldn't dredge up anything funny about it. Shaking his head, he scooped his phone off the desk, still unwillingly seeing the deep slashes in the woman's face, arms and feet. Her eyes had been open, staring through blue at the overcast sky; well, not exactly staring since the person she had been was gone from the body.

Shawn felt a stab of cold in his chest. It couldn't be possible, right? Not— not _Senior_ Grouch, Master Of All Things Unfun And Sour, Master Of By-The-Book—? He took another good look at the text message, again tasting some dread.

_O'Hara, checking out the tips you got for KOKH sightings. 6067 West Trail & Beach Lane, Samarkind. Back soon. You do good work._

_"Checking out tips you got for the KOKH sightings." _Shawn wanted nothing more than to fool himself into believing that "KOKH" was an acronym for something else; especially since Lassiter, in what might have been haste, transcribed the letters wrong. It should have read "KOHK"— "King of Hearts Killer," Shawn said out loud.

Shit, wasn't that a mistake? Now it was real. Now that he had said it, he was going to make himself do something about it. _It's your fault anyway. _

"How, how is it my fault?" Shawn could see Gus, if he were still here, raising his eyebrows in serious doubt of Shawn's sanity as he argued with himself, out loud.

_If he went— if he went alone?_

"Alone?" he scoffed. "Head Detective Carlton Lassiter? Going to a place like that without backup?"

It wasn't helping, saying anything aloud— or, Shawn reflected, even keeping it in. Maybe he should have told Gus something— but he couldn't see how it would have helped. Gus still would have left the office, telling Shawn he was being an idiot for giving a crap about Lassiter's well being; Gus was still half convinced that Lassiter had murdered Chavez, even though Drimmer was already in the process of being convicted. Even though Drimmer had kidnapped him because he'd known in that moment of talking to the fake psychic that Shawn had figured everything out.

Shawn sighed.

"Even if he went alone, how is it my fault? Huh? Huh? That's right, you've got nothing."

Shawn waited for his inner voice to counter him; he waited. "That's right," Shawn said to himself. "You've got nothing."

Well, crap.


	6. Chapter 5: You Cut So Deep

**Chapter Five: I See It Coming, But I Can't Defend, You Cut So Deep**

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Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone for your continued support! I very much appreciate reviews, feedback and constructive criticism. Minor references to Season One's _Scary Sherry: Bianca's Toast_ and Season Three's_ Lassie Did A Bad, Bad Thing_.

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He could only play this game of tag with himself for so long, though he knew he was dragging his feet. And the rising dread . . . that wasn't just a nasty case of latent ingestion from yesterday's pizza chili cheese fries. Shawn gritted his teeth, angry that his father had really instilled in him the most important lesson (though Shawn often resisted this as long as he possibly could), which was to do the right thing. He didn't always; he had overcome years of parental guilt during his time spent away from Santa Barbara after high school, skipping from job to job and country to country as if in a childhood game of hopscotch.

But when it really counted, when it really mattered, Shawn was there.

And there was just a teensy, tiny bit of him that was convinced he could turn out as the hero of this story.

As long as Juliet or Chief Vick weren't alerted to the . . . Shawn grimaced, bending forward and clutching his stomach. No one was in the office but him. Impulsively, he snatched his phone from his desk and dialed, fixing a smug look on his lips. This was _nothing_; Jules just worried too much.

_"You have reached the voice mailbox of Carlton Lassiter. I'm not available to take your call—"_

Shawn listened to the full message, rolling his eyes as Lassie droned on about the probable duties he was enmeshed in, like "serving and protecting", "hitting the streets to chase down scum" or "interrogating the hell out of tight lipped suspects" as the reasons why he was unavailable.

While Shawn was surprised not to hear "getting my fifteen in the spotlight", "on the range, practicing my killer aim" or "sulking after yet another case was solved by Spencer", the one he was expecting— "I'm being held at gunpoint right now"— was not in that tidy little bundle either.

Shawn ran a hand across his face, feeling stupid for both dallying and for giving a crap. He was still pissed about earlier, but in Lassiter's defense, Shawn knew that he had been literally adding insult to injury after Lassie's fall this morning. It was a moment too priceless to let slide by without comment; after all, he'd witnessed the whole thing and had held back from collapsing on the floor next to the fallen detective in fit of raging laughter.

He was a professional, and could maintain his composure in public . . . Shawn smirked to himself. That was the line he'd used on Juliet after the fact, feeling proud for sounding as suave as he did and for having the facts to back it up. Well, some of the facts.

Shawn had cut Lassiter some slack on behalf of Juliet's beaming smile, directed at him as he'd passed by her in the hallway. Still thinking of its starry brilliance, he'd barged into Vick's office, spinning a clever tale nearly off the tip of his tongue. He'd been encouraged by another smile of Juliet's in the office, though this time it was closed mouthed and quick. Shawn had taken Lassie's absence as good fortune; it still irked him that Lassiter had poked him in the chest when all he'd been up to was—

Shawn shook his head. Lassiter was an even less fake psychic than he was, and was easily swayed by paranoia and superstitions. He sighed, laughing at himself._ I should have known. Idiot. _Lassiter had no idea what Shawn had done— following the path of this thought with another context at stake suddenly rocked Shawn with chills. The phone still in his hand, he dialed again, wondering as sweat beaded across his eyebrows if Jules wasn't onto something significant with her growing worry.

_"You have reached—"_

"Dammit." Shawn scowled, hastily taking a seat. He dropped the phone on the desk, leaning back in the chair to put his feet up. Lassiter's cell phone wasn't even ringing; if he was still on duty, what was the detective doing with his cell phone turned off? Shawn ran through a list of unlikely scenarios, unlikely even if Lassiter wasn't on duty since the man practically lived at the station.

He was doing his damnedest to ignore that he'd mistakenly received a text message meant for a cop; what would Juliet do with that information anyway? How long would it take her to realize that the situation outlined in the text had gotten out of hand?

"You don't know that for sure, dimwit," Shawn chided himself out loud.

But then, Juliet was missing a key piece of evidence that would have probably made her reach for her gun and set her face immediately. Or would she assume, like Shawn was trying to desperately assume, that Lassiter was a big boy and could always take care of himself?

Yeah, always. Just like that time Lassiter walked into his own apartment distracted, only to have former Detective Drimmer shove a gun in his face?

In order to sway his decision, Shawn pictured Juliet crying. He hadn't ever seen it happen, so he juxtaposed the faces of other girls he'd seen (or made) cry over the years onto Juliet's in his head, focusing on her stern voice choked up with tears and broken with pain.

_But he was just her partner. She would get over it. She'd just get a new one, she'd just— _

Shawn bolted out of the chair. Even though it was just a test, Shawn hated that he'd allowed his own thoughts to stray to a place where he would consider letting a semi-colleague— honestly the most fun one to grouse the hell out of on a daily basis— become a victim— or lose his life.

He was out the door and on his bike, kicking the engine in gear before he wondered if what he was about to do could be stupider than doing nothing at all. Shawn pulled his phone out of his pocket and quickly typed up a message to Gus. Not long after that, he was on his way.

Shawn was determined to banish his guilty thoughts, determined that he had to, somehow, make whatever he had made all wrong all right.

* * *

"Were you born this sick, or did you grow into it?" Lassiter was surprised he could still muster this much venom, though he had just witness Saul lick another small drop of his blood.

Saul's lip curled. "This your dying wish, lawman? Talking about me?" His eyes narrowed. "What are you tryin' to stall for? We're gonna take this nice and slow— I like it slow."

Lassiter's eyes rolled to the ceiling, purposely not focusing on Saul. He was furious at himself for not being to stave off his pain long enough to get away from this bastard. Despite his intensive and extensive police training, he found it nearly impossible to banish an insistent flicker of panic that had set up camp at the base of his skull. At first, it was just a tiny light, blinking on and off in some kind of morse code. But then the light stayed on, burning, searing, refusing to go. Because of its proximity to his brain, it was having an effect on his other organs, making his heart pick up some extra beats, tightening the muscles in his stomach into knots, and sending its message of fear to each pain, old and new, very new—

Saul brought his ungloved hand to Lassiter's face, tilting Lassiter's chin upwards as if to inspect his artistic abilities on Lassiter's throat. Lassiter jerked his face away, his entire body going tense. "You're shy," Saul soothed, chuckling as Lassiter's eyes narrowed and he released a noise like a low growl. "I get it, you're timid-like, with the heart of a viper— well, ain't no worry. We're here lonesome, and ain't nobody around to hear you scream."

That, there it was. The light, once a tiny square was now a circle; the alarm was growing, jumping, starting to screech. Silently, Lassiter begged for help— any kind of help. He would give himself this— begging, and hate himself for it later, if there was a later.

_There will be a later._ Carlton wasn't quite sure where this affirmation came from, from his own well of resting strength or from the pieces of another voice all together— like O'Hara's or Vick's. He couldn't understand it, but just thinking it made him queasy.

Could the killer be bluffing? If he yelled, would someone—? No, it didn't seem likely. He didn't remember seeing anyone around outside, and the area wore its silence fashionably. He couldn't even recall hearing a dog bark or any children playing, or rumbles of engines sitting in traffic. _How— how did I let this happen?_ Carlton asked himself dumbfoundedly. He flinched again as Saul touched him. "Get your hands off of me," Lassiter spat, again jerking his head away. He stared coldly at Saul, trying to sort out how he could get the upper hand even while lying here— find the killer's weakness and then make him angry enough— yes. Lassiter figured that there would have to be a fight— the man could only respond to violence with more.

Saul ignored him, digging his fingertips into Lassiter's jaw line.

Lassiter forced himself to ask the first question again, knowing already that any mention of family made Saul extra vicious. "Is this streak hereditary, or unique to you?"

Saul shook his head. "What's your game, Dee-tech-tive? What're you after?"

"Your conscience," Lassiter snarled.

"My, my," the killer patronized. He retrieved the Bowie from the floor, gripping it tight enough to turn his knuckles white. He held it three inches above Lassiter's eyes, as if he'd changed his mind about cutting Lassiter's face.

"Do you have one of those?" Lassiter continued, fighting hard to keep his voice steady.

"What? A soul?" Saul asked. He sneered, turning the knife towards the exposed skin beneath Lassiter's collarbone, just under the long, oozing cut. "Ain't every living creature in some possession of that?"

Carlton's back went rigid against the floor as the blade pierced him, peeling back what felt like inches of skin. It couldn't be, but this was more than the slicing, the tiny things that drew a little blood. The blade wasn't stopping. The exertion of biting back his cries turned his face red. He exhaled a hard breath when he saw Saul sit back, his pupils locked on the blood on one of the blade's sides.

"This has got to be hurting you," Saul told him, digging in his jeans pocket for a cloth. He used it to wipe the blade, as if not to be tempted. Then he got to his feet, seeming to enjoy staring at his prisoner from his full height.

"No," Lassiter lied, trying ignore the stinging of the newest wound.

Saul guffawed. "You're a different breed, all right. All those bodies there before you— they had no reason to lie to me."

Lassiter sucked in some shallow breaths through his nose.

"I know it hurts— I should know," Saul said, leaving the last admission dangling in the air.

"Why?" Lassiter snarled. "Did your grandfather use you as his own personal cutting board?"

"I thought I told you—" Saul's voice rose dangerously, and he lashed a nasty kick to Lassiter's side. Pain exploded throughout his body, the kind of pain that erupts in the form of white cartoon stars. "I thought I told you, boy, to keep your mouth shut about—" Again, another kick. The second kick made Lassiter gasp; some kind of liquid filled his mouth. He heard the killer's voice echoing in his ears, _"I thought I told you, boy—"_ The harsh rasp of the sentence didn't quite belong to Saul, though it was said with his voice.

"Stop!" Lassiter yelled out after another relentless kick. He had been fighting to move his bound arms to protect his ribs, but Saul had merely toed them away before resuming his anger. He was breathing hard, as if he'd been running, and starting to feel woozy, even though he was already flat on his back.

"I ain't done with you," Saul told him, brandishing his knife as if it were a finger he wanted to wag at a disobedient child. "But before you die, I'm gonna know all your secrets, but you ain't gonna know mine." He lowered himself into a squat, close enough to poke the new cut he'd opened. Lassiter winced, turning his head. "You got a soul, I know you do— and I'm going to enjoy eating that too."

Despite the pain— all of it, really, Lassiter's mouth twisted up into an disbelieving smile, his left eyebrow arched for emphasis of the absurdity. "Are you— are you _kidding_ me? You're going to 'eat my soul'? And you think that sounds threatening to me?"

Saul stared at him, the thinnest veil of confusion settling over his eyes. It faded as Saul looked away from him into the shadows. "My last— she tried to scramble. Cat and mouse wasn't as fun with her; she was running blind with blood in her eyes— she had blue eyes, dark hair, like you, lawman."

The smile slid off his face in a sobering moment; he knew it had been an attempt to reassure his fears, though trying to read something deep into this "soul eating" line was nearly bubbling inappropriate laughter from his lips— he pressed them together. This attempt was counterproductive— the laughter he wanted to exude was a sign that he was already crab walking himself to the edge of this terror, terror that would have made civilians scream or cry many times over by now. Had they also felt dirty, as if their humanity was being cut from them, strip by strip? The thoughts burned him— he wanted justice for those whose humanity had been dismembered by this killer; and these thoughts disquieted him— he would give anything to find a way out, back into the life going all wrong but where he was still alive.

Since he was only talking to himself, inside his head, and no one else would ever hear it, Carlton visualized his partner rushing in, gun drawn, with her sharp cry of "Don't move!" He liked to hog the spotlight, being the first to identify himself as police and demand the suspect, whom he would tag with some insult, "Freeze." _I take her for granted,_ Lassiter thought, knowing how much he had really come to rely on O'Hara— as partner and as— what was that word she used, that word defining that group of people he didn't have many of— oh, "friend". Friend— nearly an alien word in his vocabulary until— Miss Sunshine. _She'd laugh at me, thinking like this,_ Lassiter thought, feeling both relieved and miserable. This train of thought made him address the panic— _Okay,_ he thought, _fine, I'm scared. I don't want to die._ There— he'd admitted it— but he made himself promise that he would not, no matter what, let Saul extract these words from him. Better to let the killer think Lassiter was as unfeeling as him.

Saul touched Lassiter's face yet again, this time running a gloved finger across an earlier cut near his right ear, either one obtained from his shaving mishaps or the one from when he had fallen in the police station. The police station . . . it was alarming to him that he could only see it as if he were looking at it through a narrowing tunnel, with a dirt floor— then, sharply, the faces of his colleagues. "You had these," Saul commented, running his finger across the cuts. "Maybe you like to be cut?"

"Like you?" Lassiter shot back, clenching his hands into fists. The movement made him recall the burn and he had to quickly release his right fist— it was just coffee. Why did coffee hurt him so much? Or was it the water that had hurt him?

"Like me?" Saul repeated, pressing the side of the Bowie against the small cut on his jaw line. "Huh. Maybe you got someone who cuts you— but not with a blade?" Saul raised his eyebrows as he traced a deeper line in the cut, using precision to keep it the same size.

Lassiter remained silent, again sparing some anger. He felt every incision as if they were all more than superficial, with some of the killer's words seeping into him as slow acting poison.

"Not only weapons can cut," Saul said. Again, he traced the cut on Lassiter's jaw. "Nuh-uh, you can do it with the eyes, with your tongue— your whole mouth of teeth and lips and your brain, with your words— with a touch—"

"You were ugly like death at your birth," Lassiter snapped. "Weren't you? Hideous."

"I'm just human, lawman," Saul countered gently, letting Lassiter's insult roll off him. "Just like you."

"I'm nothing like you," Lassiter said, looking away.

"You're a killer," Saul said softly. "Don't tell me you ain't never put that barrel against— squeezed the trigger— fired— and had it feel so good." His eyes narrowed as he looked Lassiter over. "Don't deny."

Lassiter scowled. He tried to bite his tongue, but couldn't let this go. "I am _not_ a murderer. There's a huge difference. You're on the wrong side, jack-off."

A dark smile crept over Saul's features. "You ain't got no one, I'm suspecting— working on your own— entering in with your shiny toys— though I did stop you from calling in to spread some lies."

"How do you know that?" Lassiter bluffed, he hoped, convincingly.

"Ain't no one gonna come for you, lawman," Saul told him with a grin. "Ain't no one out there missing you— you're an angry one, rage bundled— many out there, they're skin and fluff, no depth, just getting by on a big fat smile. No'ne, I suspect, can handle some'ne like you"— he chuckled— "or me— and they'd be none the happier to forget you ever was. Just like me," Saul added those last three words thickly, darkly, slowly— and they shook Lassiter's heart because he knew there was more than a scant possibility that they could be true.

_"In a few short years, you could be like her. Everyone is, frankly, surprised that it didn't work out." _Lassiter shivered inwardly, suddenly haunted by Vick's words following "the incident". The Chief had gone back to her paperwork without another word as he'd stood there, dumbfounded, waiting, he'd reflected, for some kind word or reassurance of his worth. When neither had followed, he'd left, turning around to face the department who viewed him as— cold, his whole body was cold.

He wouldn't, not for a second, allow himself to believe that the killer thought of him as similar or the same— but Lassiter was more iced with paranoia that the killer could be right about his colleagues forgetting him as if he— had never been alive. As if they'd never met him, spoken to him, known him— would it be a "good riddance" thing? Lassiter felt the hard space of floor underneath, wondering if it was only earthen and if it might be his grave. Would anyone care that he might be buried beneath here, missing his— blood and his heart? Or would be just another faceless nameless DB— useless, worthless, soulless—

He didn't care if the water now in his eyes could be viewed as a sign of weakness; he let them fill slowly, he let the moisture burn him. The pain of his own making made him remember that he wasn't dead yet and that he was a fighter— and that— what? That he could change? He didn't want to change the whole of himself, just small things. _O'Hara will help you, she's already helped you—_ a voice reminded him. Some moisture spilled from one eye, just from his lower lid to the dark half circle under his eye, pooling. _O'Hara— please. Please— help me._

* * *

"Hello, Juliet?" Gus asked. "It's Gus." He didn't miss the disappointment in her tone as she greeted him. He was a bit taken aback. "Sorry, we you expecting someone else? Shawn?"

"No," Juliet said, move a stray strand of hair from her eyes. She sighed. "I'm sorry, Gus. I thought you might be Lassiter." She shook her head, though he couldn't see. "Never mind. What's going on?"

"Oh," Gus said, unable to hide his worry. "I was just wondering, is Shawn at the station?"

"No," Juliet repeated. "I haven't seen him since the crime scene. Why?"

"It's— probably nothing. He's just not answering his phone, and he left me this kind of weird text message." Gus inhaled and then exhaled loudly. "I just thought maybe he would have—"

"Where are you, Gus?" Juliet asked politely.

He explained about the meeting. "I left the Psych office about forty-five minutes ago, and I had my phone turned off because I figured Shawn would try to call me several times, as he usually does. But the meeting just let out for a break. I called the office but he's not answering."

Being told that Shawn wasn't answering his phone brought up Juliet's displaced worry for where, exactly, her partner might be. She could easily guess that a possible reason Shawn was not answering was because he'd forgotten to charge his phone, but Lassiter? What possible explanation could there be for Lassiter— it hit her suddenly with the weight usually illustrated in cartoons, a ton of bricks.

"Oh, god," she murmured, willing her worry not to be true.

"What is it?" Gus cut in, nervous.

"No, it's— I'm sure Shawn is fine, Gus," Juliet said distractedly. "Did you try his father's house?"

"What?" Gus asked, furrowing his brow. "No, why would I do that?"

Juliet's brows pinched together. She swallowed a big lump of worry, though it stuck in her throat. She needed a game plan, a good explanation to fully convince herself why Lassiter was away. She imagined every which way of reprimand, every cast off glance, his low growls at her wasting time on something so trivial as him being out of the station. How he could enter the bullpen at any moment, grumbling and cursing, not even noticing her standing by, her chest tight with dismay.

But such an occurrence as this was rare; it was a necessity to their job to let the other one know where they were unless they were each working separate cases, or off duty, of course.

Experience had taught her that no matter how resilient and courageous her partner was, he was not invincible though he held onto the conviction that he was. She usually took her silent pride in a smile to herself at how much he had come to rely on her without even realizing it— and not just as another insubordinate who would follow his orders and do the menial jobs of a junior detective with no back talk. Of course, they had come up more as equals, though Lassiter was still higher in rank to her. Juliet felt that her partner had no idea how much he— she paused, unsure if "needed" was the word she wanted. _Needed her,_ she tried it out. _How much he needs me._

She would never push him to admit it, or gloat over it if it happened to slip out of his mouth.

* * *

"You got yourself some nice burnt flesh," Saul commented, jabbing the knife towards the burn Carlton had sustained earlier. The tip poked the skin joining his thumb to his pointer finger, stinging as if it were a needle going in. Lassiter bit his lip; it had long ago already opened to offer its blood, so he was surprised by more of its copper on his tongue. "Yes," Saul murmured, tracing the blade slowly across Lassiter's hand, across the whole of the burn.

Lassiter cursed, taking himself out of the sensation of pain by focusing on how close the knife was to his bonds— and how close Saul's hands and torso were over him. As Saul cut more lines, deeper lines, waiting for his victim's small cries, Lassiter ceased to feel the blade, overwhelmed by the sense that he needed to fight— that it was now or never. And if he wasn't feeling pain, this would be the best time to get to his feet. But, on the flip side, if he wasn't feeling pain, he might not be feeling his limbs either and might end up crashing straight back down to the floor. _Chance I'll have to take,_ Carlton insisted, tightening the muscles in his arms. He let the killer think that it was because slashing open of his hand hurt that badly. Carlton waited, holding his breath even as a small voice cried that he needed a steady breath to make this work. As Saul turned the blade, bringing it back across his hand, teasing a few of Lassiter's raised veins, he paused as if inspecting his "anti-artwork". "Mighty fine," Saul muttered, dropping his face closer to Lassiter's right hand.

With a grunt released halfway into his action, Lassiter raised his bound arms with as much reserved strength as he had towards Saul's face, catching the killer sharply in the nose. Saul's head jerked up, managing an intake of breath before Lassiter struck his again in the cheek, using his abused stomach and calf muscles to sit up. Wasting no time, Lassiter struck again, smashing his arms into Saul's throat. The blade was gleaming, catching the light high above them, and almost seducing Lassiter into taking it. Not that he needed to be tricked in order to consider it; he stretched his fingers out for it, though it was still firmly clutched by the killer.

Saul swung for him, ready to punish his captive for disobedience.

Lassiter dodged, but Saul's fist grazed the top of his back. With a yell, Lassiter knocked his shoulder into Saul's chest with enough force to send the man onto his back. His head hit the partial earthen floor with a dull thud. And unlike earlier, Saul didn't get up right away. The knife was gleaming, still gleaming, like forbidden fruit waiting to be picked. Lassiter gathered his knees under him, scooting as quickly as he could towards the weapon.

Adrenaline blurred the edges of his actions, his breath coming out in harsh huffs through his nose and mouth. Lassiter could taste the blood on his lips, and willed pain to keep at bay. Lassiter struggled like chained up cattle, clumsy but existing on speed. He couldn't feel anything, or think about anything, except getting free. This had to work. It had to.

Hovering over his captor gave him not on the usual enjoyment he usually took in gaining the upper hand. Saul's eyes were partially closed, but flickering, a low groan hissing through his teeth. Lassiter thrust his fist toward the Bowie, struck by new alarm while trying to pry the knife from the killer's grasp. If he was still holding on, then there was more than a chance he could snap back up, madder than ever. With his heart doing an accelerated samba in his ears, Lassiter yanked on the hilt with all his hope and was rewarded by its release into space— though the motion sent him tumbling onto his back.

Lassiter stiffled a cry when he saw Saul move, then lurch for him, snake-like. Without hesitation, Carlton lashed out his bound feet. The killer's veil of coolness was gone, and the murderous part had surfaced, giving him a more deadened appearance. There was no conscience behind this human-like skin, a thought that parted the flurry of action that Lassiter was engaged in.

The kick had caught Saul in the stomach, and had enough power behind it to slam the back of Saul's head into the floor with a crack; Lassiter heard him groan but knew his window for escape was even smaller than before. He gripped the handle of the knife and rubbed the sharpened blade against the tight plastic holding his wrists together. It took a bit of hard sawing, but as soon as the plastic parted, Lassiter yanked his arms apart with some strength he'd been saving up. The zip ties popped off; he didn't allow himself any time to savor this freedom and instead, curved the blade towards his ankles. Unintentionally, he bumped his twisted ankle and had to gasp, but didn't dwell on how much it was going to kill when he got to his feet. A voice was telling him that he needed to run, and even if this meant that Saul would get away, he knew it was in his best interests to listen to it. After all, ignoring these alarm bells earlier had led him straight into danger— this was not a job for one man alone.

Saul was moving, raising a hand to his forehead as Lassiter frantically sawed through the zip ties around his feet. Lassiter kept one eye peeled on the killer, ready to either duck or fight if Saul should take a swing or aim a kick at him.

"Pretty slick," Saul muttered, his eyes now open and staring up at him as Lassiter finally got the ties off his feet. Lassiter pawed the floor and then scrambled, jumping up. He cursed violently under his breath as soon as he put weight on his ankle. He stumbled back a few feet from Saul, who was pressing up on his elbows as if to watch a show. The coolness had returned, and Saul pursed his lips in a way that suggested that he was still in control even though his snagged prey had momentarily untangled himself from its net. "You still ain't goin' nowhere," Saul drawled, as if in emphasis of his look. "You already tried this dog and pony show once, don't you remember?"

Carlton hadn't anticipated the pain to be this bad; he'd felt that the cut along his collarbone hurt much worse, but he was sweating profusely and even feeling lightheaded. He begged his fight or flight response to hold out so he could get away; had he really thought he could subdue Saul before running off to get help?

Still gripping the knife, Carlton wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. Some blood, still wet, rubbed off. He got a quick glimpse at his wrists— they bore the circular red impressions of the zip ties. His joints were stiff, but he hadn't been tied up that long so he retained most of his circulation. Saul was climbing to his feet.

"I've still got your guns, lawman," Saul reminded him, reaching around his belt for where he'd put one. "Not my weapon of choice, but it will do."

Lassiter sneered at him, straightening though the pain raked moisture from his eyes. How callous, this bastard thinking he could use Lassiter's own Glock .45 against him. "Just try it," Lassiter dared, feeling a rush. A new surge of adrenaline had wiped out his panicking, and made him believe he could engage in some kind of fair fight with the murderer's knife against his very own gun.

Saul shook his head. "I ain't gonna shoot, but you're _gonna_ give me back my knife."

"Like hell."

The killer pointed a gloved finger in his direction. "You came here of your accord; that must mean something to you." Saul flicked off the safety and adjusted his hand to the weight of Lassiter's gun.

It was dumbfounding, trying to follow Saul's logic. Lassiter decided not to try. "You tricked me to get me to come here. That's kidnapping."

Saul shrugged. "Kidnappin's the least of my sins. And here you are, trying to get me to surrender, as if you're the hero of this story."

Lassiter held his ground as Saul took one step in his direction. He was going to have to make a decision soon, whether to test Saul's "I won't shoot" theory out or put down the knife and still hope he could get the upper hand.

"'Sides, ain't kidnapping a peace officer just as bad as killing him?" Saul asked. When he grinned, Lassiter took a step back, the voice reminding him that he was supposed to run. "But I don't wanna kill you, not yet. No, I think I want— more taste."

Lassiter's anger and disgust flared. He remembered much too well the sensation of Saul's tongue on the back of his neck— one of the many assault charges Saul was racking up. "Why do you think my blood is worthy?" he called out, brandishing the knife as if it were a gun. "You didn't take the blood of anyone else."

Saul laughed. "They looked pure— but their answers told me they weren't. Cut, slice, dig— every last one was a disappointment."

"I'm not pure," Lassiter said.

"Yeah, you are— you're the source, the well of black gold— blood strength in a man."

Lassiter heard the hush after his words— a whish or swish— and he shivered violently inside. Saul did truly believe in these old tales— or lies— of his ancestors— or of a more recent source. "Because— you think this because I came here?" he said, unable to contain the horror and disbelief in his voice.

Saul smiled. "Now you're catching on."

"Then why kill those others? Why take them if—"

"It was a hope that I'd get lucky. Find the one— ones, maybe, even— to—"

"Shut your filthy mouth," Lassiter yelled, not wanting to hear anymore.

"You still think you're gonna take me in, put me in those shiny silver bracelets and haul me off in front of some judge," Saul taunted. With his free hand, he reached in his back jeans pocket and pulled out Lassiter's handcuffs. He let them dangle for a second before tossing them onto the floor.

_Goddammit,_ Lassiter thought, staring. He felt unbalance without his cuffs, his gun and badge on his person, this weapon in his fingers a poor substitute in his battle to stay alive. But they were just things, and if he got away he could come back for them later.

"Now, I think I've played nice for long enough. I was taught right, no elbows on the table, say your prayers before each meal, don't play with your food." He glared at Lassiter with no trace of a smile on his face. "Drop the knife."

Carlton tried to not let the killer's words linger in his mind, but they were hanging on and he was more than disheartened. He owed this man before him pain, but it would be better to do it on his own terms, in an interrogation room where he was safe and at ease. Still, he was not about to let this freak get his hands on him again if he could help it. "Make me," Lassiter snarled, breathing harder as he pressed more weight onto his injured ankle.

For a few moments, they waited, each looking the other over as more animals than men— and then there was a rush of air, and a hard scrape of shoes, Saul moving like a fanged large cat or wolf bent on cornering its prey and Lassiter like the wounded game charged up with life, taking his ragged steps forward, baring his teeth and claws as the only razors of his anger. They were matched in strength, but Saul had more weight on his frame and was not as battered, but Lassiter still fought to hold his own. He jabbed with Saul's knife, catching the killer's fingers with enough force that Lassiter sliced through the fabric of the remaining glove, causing a hiss from Saul. Lassiter stabbed again, piercing the fabric of the killer's shirt; Saul grunted, and smacked at Lassiter's wrists with the butt of the gun. Saul actually loosened his hold on the gun at Lassiter's next few and continued jabs, spilling his first blood since the days of youthful bar fights. The Glock .45 slipped to the floor, somehow not going off when it hit. Saul's hands were on the underside of his forearms, squeezing hard. Lassiter jabbed the knife again, this time towards Saul's neck. They kicked each other at the same time; Saul grunted as his shin took the hit, but Saul's kick caught Lassiter's injured ankle and he saw red-black stars.

Lassiter retreated a few steps, trying to catch his breath. His arm shot out with knife pointed at Saul's gut when the killer came at him but Saul grabbed right Lassiter's elbow and bent his arm upward— this time getting a solid kick to Lassiter's groin. Still, Saul had to pry the Bowie from Lassiter's sweaty fingers because he was hanging onto its hilt for dear life. Lassiter managed to slice the killer's hand again before he fell to his knees, the pain unbearable. Saul tilted the Bowie, bending his elbow and catching some overhead light on the 8 mm blade.

"You son of a—" Lassiter huffed, his face a deep maroon. He hissed, fighting to keep his eyes open and to stay on his knees. He felt like he was dying, but he knew the pain would pass. _My gun— my gun is on the floor. _Keeping his eyes on Saul, who was wiping his bloody fingers on the front of his jeans, Lassiter lowered himself further and felt around for his gun. Laying his fingers on familiar steel, he knew he had one chance, _just one chance_ to stand and stop this maniac. Grunting, then yelling, Carlton ignored the stab of red in his eyes as he jumped to his feet. His finger wrapped around the trigger, pulling it as naturally as breathing. Saul lunged at him again, at the same instant— they were forces in motion— collision unavoidable.

He missed— Lassiter missed. He was in shock; one shot fired had left his gun, but Saul was quicker than he'd anticipated— he'd sidestepped— or was Lassiter's aim off? That off? How? He could have sworn he'd seen the bright flash of the round exploding from the barrel, seen a small spray of blood from where the bullet may have penetrated, but the killer showed no pain on his features. He screwed up his eyes, trying to make sense of the scene before him, asking the questions he was certain to ponder again and again as he— Lassiter gasped, sweat exiting his pores fast. He cried out, a guttural sound, then a sharper yelp of horror, disbelief— then, the harsh wrangle of breath from his lungs.

Saul hadn't missed. He wore a look of dissatisfaction that it had come to this, that he'd been forced to defend himself, that he had to go to such extremes to keep Lassiter here. He stood over Lassiter, who was back on his knees, panting harshly and bleeding from the mouth. Saul held out the Bowie, blood from Lassiter's right side coating half the blade. "You're trying to make me waste it," Saul finally said, bringing the blade to his lips as he determined he'd subdued his victim enough for the moment.

Lassiter's hands went to the gushing stab wound— _he stabbed me,_ Carlton thought with new shock, feeling so lightheaded at only the thought, he was certain he would pass out. He pressed on the opening, trying not to think about the slippery liquid that he needed escaping from his body, pouring over his fingers so quickly he couldn't understand how. He flicked his eyes towards his captor, wishing in god's name that he hadn't, because he witnessed Saul licking some of his blood off of the blade.

Lassiter was, in that moment, too scared to make a sound. He couldn't assess how bad the wound was because the light around his head was dimming, then darkening. His limbs were giving out from underneath him. He was afraid to go sleep because he didn't know if he'd wake, but the darkness gave him no options and just pulled him down into its folds.

* * *

"Juliet?"

Juliet's breath stopped, and she sighed. Had she just blanked out while Gus was speaking? How much time had passed? She glanced at the clock, wondering if it was accurate; really, more than five minutes? She was ready to own up to it, to blame it on stress of the latest case, when Gus launched into another drone of what Shawn might be up to, and told her to hang on for a moment while he tried some other avenues.

Juliet went back to her thoughts from a few minutes ago; there was an undeniable heaviness under her ribs and she knew, just knew, that something was seriously wrong. It was more than woman's intuition, but it was frustrating to not know what was wrong— or how bad things may be. Without any evidence, she could only speculate, and suspected that Vick or anyone else might call her on transferring her feelings from these killings into her recent worries— but this was Lassiter. Juliet reached out and grabbed the edge of her desk with her free hand.

She turned her head, craning her neck to watch some passing officers and detectives, searching out that tall, lanky man who knew how to wear his suits well but sometimes had the worst taste in ties it made her a little sick to look at them. But what she wouldn't give to . . . put her fears to rest. Tell herself how ridiculous she was being . . . Lassiter was fine.

She couldn't abide, and her anxiety gnawed at her, teasing relentlessly that something bad had gone down. Juliet tried to talk herself out it, tried to lessen the worry, telling herself it might be . . . the anniversary of his first break up to Victoria . . . or it was just remnants of the bad day he'd been having . . . he was out, taking it easy, on an extended lunch. The roof of her mouth hummed. She couldn't believe in these lies; something else was going on. She had no clues, nothing to go on— but she could track the GPS in Lassiter's phone.

This plan calmed her. She considered herself resourceful, and planned out her words to tell her partner when she found him— no, it wasn't spying and if it was, she had learned from the master, so there.

To practice for this time when they were face to face again, Juliet focused on one of Lassiter's often angry glares that he fixed on anyone who dared to annoy him; she was proud to say that she had come to cower less under its burning gaze. Besides, she felt she was entitled to smack him on the arm for worrying the hell out of her, even if it turned out to be absolutely nothing. She could write the smack off easily too, a throwback to his callous words in Vick's office earlier. Juliet's eyes found the clock, and she calculated backwards the time when she had last seen her partner— and was startled to realize that nearly three hours had passed, not just over two. She estimated that she must have called at least 60 times; the fear was back.

Not waiting for Gus to return to the line, Juliet sank the phone back to its cradle. Whatever this was with Shawn could wait— it was probably nothing.


	7. Chapter 6: What Flows There Like Wine

**Chapter Six: You Know What Flows There Like Wine **

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Author's Note: Thanks for your reviews, support and patience! Special thanks to Texasartchick and windscryer for their great knowledge and wisdom on the subject of gun shot and knife wounds. As always, reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated. I'm still working on both humor in general and Shawn's humor, so just please bear with me.

Disclaimer: Don't own Del Taco. Minor references to Season One's _Pilot_, _Poker? I Barely Know Her_, and _Scary Sherry: Bianca's Toast_ and Season Two's_ From Zero To Murder in Sixty Seconds, _and Season Three's _Lassie Did A Bad, Bad Thing_.

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* * *

Shawn made good time, getting to the address just as the overcast sky hinted deeper blues, signaling oncoming night. He shivered in a toss of wind on his face after he removed his helmet, staring off down the maze of pathways that led to the buildings. He was struck by how much eerie charm was lost on this place after the sun had gone down. It looked like, under the rain slick pavement and on rain soaked gutters, just another Spanish Style Southern California home— a stock house, an overly large mansion or set of building block mansions all lined up together.

The area was silent, as he'd recalled it the one time he'd passed by here, after getting lost on his way to find a new Del Taco location which had promised free cinnamon twists. For a few moments, Shawn considered calling out, but swallowed it when he figured that if there was any action, it was probably happening within.

Shawn hoped there wasn't any action, though he couldn't deny there was a small part of him who wished there was some kind of fight. He imagined himself victorious, coming to Lassiter's aid only so he could tease him relentlessly about it later— "I saved your life. I, Shawn Spencer, saved _your_ life." With a nice, fat sneer. He couldn't wait to gloat.

But, he shouldn't hold that fantasy too dear. If the truth came out about why Lassiter would have come here in the first place, without backup or not— Shawn's gut twisted, and a sour taste found its way under his tongue.

That was Lassiter's car he'd parked next to— the detective was here, somewhere. Shawn remembered the way his stomach had lurched when he'd seen the car while he was pulling in. This was the car who had beat him and Gus to many crime scenes, scooping up the evidence before he could take his "psychic" readings on it, i.e. so he could look first and then fake it later. This was also the car so hyped by Lassiter himself, which had been missing the moment the detective took Shawn and Gus out of the station to show it off. And the same that had met him and Gus at the old asylum when Shawn had discovered Juliet aka Mary Lou Baumgartner was in mortal danger. It was strange to see the car sitting here without any occupants; at least, at crime scene, he knew that its occupants would be coming back to it.

Shawn let a shiver overtake him as he stared through the vacant windshield, and didn't stop the jabs of anxiety that . . . that what he may have "predicted" had come true. For a few moments, Shawn stood staring at the sprawling building, glancing once at his motorcycle and then staring at Lassiter's empty car to anchor his decision. _I'm here now, I might as well go in, _he thought with bravery that was only half there.

Shawn remembered the doors he had seen from the street as he'd passed by on his motorcycle, and headed directly for one, twisting through the maze as if there were no barriers.

There _was_ something pulling him closer, though he couldn't tell completely or admit that it was, but it felt like a rush of thrill— or the excitement of solving a case, and the knowledge that Shawn could aptly prepare his "great reveal". Danger, yes. He didn't slack his pace, though his dread increased the closer he got to the doors. If danger was "calling", then this was the real deal— not some kindhearted would be killer who "never meant for any of this to happen" while waving his gun around haphazardly and pleading his case of not going to prison.

Shawn flicked a long look back over his shoulder. He could make out the outline of Lassiter's Crown Vic, its sleek body half vanishing into shadow. He was still struck that Lassiter was, of course, not inside and seemed to have been gone from the driver's seat for a while. _Which could only mean that—_ Shawn turned his head, looking ahead. He paused, briefly considering calling out from this distance. Halfway there, the silence continued, the unnerving kind with its limitless stretch of no activity.

As he walked, it began to dawn on him that even if he yelled, either here or within, Lassiter might not be able to answer. Shawn quickly retraced his thoughts, backing up to make the decision to think that a likely reason Lassiter would not be able to answer was out of his great shock that Shawn had "divined" his trouble and come to help. (And had not come, of course, to save his own hide from stern lectures from Vick, Juliet, and his father, as well as to avoid any jail time.) Uh huh. He was here to do the right thing.

Shawn's thoughts shuddered once or twice over the corpse from the beach and though he tried not to consider it, it pinched Shawn's stomach to wonder if Lassiter might be lying there in a similar condition. _Stop it, he's not. He's Lassie. _To make himself feel more at ease, Shawn recalled some incidences that he, with the help of Gus, had made Lassiter look like a fool in front of the Chief when he'd zoomed in and solved a case the Head Detective had been absolutely certain he had solved already. A few smiles tugged at the corner of Shawn's lips, but he was unsuccessful at banishing the thin line of worry that had driven him to come here.

Shawn well remembered Lassiter's bewilderment when Drimmer stepped out from behind the door with a gun, and the look of terrible realization as his mind pieced the how and why Shawn was in his apartment. But Lassiter had recovered quickly, never showing once ounce of fear as he back talked Drimmer and searched for spare guns. Though this was different; certainly not some dirty cop looking to set Lassiter up. Even so, it was near impossible for Shawn to imagine Lassiter in _this_ kind of danger, even up against a serial killer this brutal— if that's what truly lay beyond the facade.

But this killer was unknown to them— sadistic and savvy, meticulous and practiced.

It was more than possible, even for an experienced Head Detective, that Lassiter had no idea what kind of foe he was actually going up against. But Lassiter as _helpless_? Shawn felt a prickling on the back of his neck; _he_ wasn't a cop, didn't have a weapon— and there was more than half a chance that his cell phone battery was getting low—

A door handle was within reach. Shawn went for it, letting out a small gasp when the handle turned with a rusty squeak. This was it, he was going in.

Shawn hovered in the darkness of the threshold for a few seconds, desperate to believe that there weren't a graze of raccoons— or was it gaze? gazy? gazelle?— Gus had just corrected him on this a few weeks ago, but he told himself that this wasn't the best time for him to remember such a trivial fact— hoping there wasn't a _huge bunch_ of raccoons waiting with their beady little eyes— until an angry voice from within his thoughts— maybe a manifestation of his father's— yelled at him that he'd better _"Move it, or he'd lose it"_. It startled Shawn enough that he did what it asked, going within and closing the door. It wasn't until he was inside, waiting for his eyes to adjust, that he wondered if the "manifestation" was not his father's anger, but Lassiter's.

* * *

Gus had chickened out halfway through calling Henry. When he took Juliet off of hold, he was surprised to find only dead air. He hadn't even the chance to tell her about the text. Pulling the phone away from his ear, Gus took another look at it, hoping to make some sense of it.

_Gus McSnazzy-abandoner-pants & shirt & buttons :p m prob. doing sumthing stupid. ? :O But good stupid, u kno, the kind that fixes the stupider-er things. Just shut up._

Gus sighed. He was kind of glad he hadn't had the chance to relay this message to Juliet; with the way she sounded, she could have likely snapped at him not to waste her time. Or that she was not Shawn's keeper— _he was_. Gus frowned. This might be the guilt talking— the guilt Gus always ending up feeling somehow from the problems Shawn caused— the ones that were usually 99.9% _his_ fault, not Gus's.

"Hey, you coming back in?" Gus startled when one of his coworkers patted him on the shoulder, tilting his thinning blond hair towards the conference room.

Gus forced out an amiable smile. "One second, Doug."

"I'll save you a seat," Doug said with too big of an excited smile. These types of meetings were never exciting to Gus, but he attended because it was required of him for advancement in his day job. He craved the stability and order it brought to his life; and he was a pretty charismatic and persuasive salesman, if he did say so himself.

But, this second job that his orderless, restless and still often shiftless best friend had brought into his tidy (_ahem_, boring) life had been a welcome change, though Gus had been hard pressed at first to regard it as anything but another throwaway whim of Shawn's, something he'd tire of in five minutes flat.

So Gus had certainly been stunned to find out that Shawn had actually signed a lease on the building that was now their private "psychic" detective agency office, after the major and unexpected success of their first police commissioned case. The homicide had been solved by the skin of their teeth and with some cleverly executed slight of hand and had convinced at least one very experienced and superior police officer that Shawn was psychic. Eventually Gus had become almost comfortable with this role of partner to his fake psychic friend, knowing as well as Shawn did that this was one thing Shawn could not worm his way out of, not with a bright charming grin or jokes or some witty turns of phrase. It was this, Shawn had realized, or jail. Though they had the Chief of Police cutting them some slack, Detective Lassiter was not likely ever to be fooled into believing the charade.

Gus paused in his reminiscing. He recalled that Juliet had been upset when she'd answered, and had been hoping that it was Lassiter trying to get in touch with her. She hadn't said anything more, but it was obviously some kind of big deal. Gus tried to ponder it the way Shawn might, as a detective and with Juliet's interests at heart. Gus frowned; he didn't know why he should care. But he could recognize that the detective's day hadn't been going well, as if the entire universe wanted a hand in his demise. Gus had been there many times . . . though shockingly, many of his bad days were the result of Shawn's scheming gone horribly wrong.

Gus shook his head. _Shawn_. What kind of shit could his best friend be getting himself into now?

* * *

Dreaming, or floating, just skimming the underbelly of the surface of waking. He didn't want open his eyes, so he allowed his thoughts to run like a roller coaster set on its track, ready to go.

Pain swirled around his body, making itself aware in tight little icy knots. The small blows, kicks and cuts— the burn, the aches sustained from falling, the wound at the back of his head where he'd been hit, the swollen ankle— everything stung and bit, except his side, which burned— _why, why did it?_ He let himself slip back underneath, not quite asleep but thinking of the past— the faraway one and the more recent.

Why hadn't O'Hara— responded to his message? He had come to count on her, trust her— but all this wasn't her fault. It was his, for sauntering in here, playing up his invincibility, as if he never needed anyone's help, as if he could always go it alone. _I'm . . . I was wrong,_ he thought with lament, struggling to banish the "s" words on the tip of his tongue, of apology or fear. Sweat or something equally wet trickled down his skin. _I need—_

He was always drilling into O'Hara, though she didn't need to be told, that these kinds of situations were easily avoidable— but he had never said that if you wanted to be stupid and make an ass of yourself what would happen to you. Abducted by a killer, bashed in the head, tied up, threatened, cut, kicked, taunted, sickened and stabbed— no, none of these had ever come to him as useful examples. Instead, he had used the words "gunpoint" or "knife point", even offering her the story of his mistake as a rookie in hopes that she would never unwittingly put herself in a similar situation.

She hadn't asked him if he had been scared, only listening with anticipation as if she didn't know how the story was going to end. She had even seemed relieved when he'd told her that the standoff had been cut short by the quick thinking of his then partner and that he hadn't been hurt that badly. Lassiter remembered his fear of that night quite well, the idiocy of being grabbed as a hostage hitting him directly following his rescue, but he didn't share these things with O'Hara. He also left out the part about being teased mercilessly for months following the incident by his fellow officers and even some of the detectives— though his own partner never uttered another word about it, grateful, it seemed, to still have his young partner alive. During the lecture, Lassiter's partner had told him, "You need to live long enough to make Detective, so don't you dare make a fool out of me by not doing that. Understand?" Carlton remembered nodding, blushing furiously with humiliation and shame, though he'd felt lucky to be alive.

Now, he felt didn't want to make a fool out of O'Hara, by not living long enough to see her go up in rank. They'd never spoken of this; it was sudden, hitting him as he'd just remembered his former partner's words._ I have to get out of here,_ he thought, peering into the long shadows that were far from his reach._ Somehow. I have to._

Now that he was thinking of her, it was starting to hurt. He didn't know what was hurting at first, but some force was urging him to open his eyes. He stayed in the drift, letting her overrun his subconscious.

O'Hara's persistence to learn small facts about him— her excitement, before his birthday their first partnered year together, when she had discovered he didn't like mint, that he was, in fact, allergic to it, still had a way of flooring him. _Why, why did she even care? _He was a private man; believing it best to keep to himself (though, he had to admit, it was getting harder and harder to keep as many secrets with the blond crowbar's cheerful prying). And what was more, he found himself offering his opinions, both deep and superficial, to her mostly willingly; it was an unnerving occurrence yet strangely and gradually welcome to the lonely persona he had once been.

Even stranger was that fact that as he became more aware of her attempts to draw him out, (at first staying closed off with a long string of grumbles or glares), he began to mind it less, less. And when he sensed her tiring of it, as if she'd reached the end of her rope and accepted that he had withdrawn his long neck back into that hard turtle shell, he found himself making more of an effort, giving her tidbits, or more, about himself. Sometimes he was ashamed of himself that he cared whether or not Juliet directed her smile to shine on him, but he couldn't help but do it again and again. Lassiter tried to dredge up an image of her smile; it was easy enough, but it faded quickly. His insides twisted. He feared he was never going to see that smile again. . . . _But I have to,_ he urged his thoughts to arc positively.

Almost as if she were there now, like a bright ray of sunshine, resting a cool hand on his cheek.

* * *

Carlton, when he came to, couldn't judge how long he'd been unconscious for. Dizziness waved over him; he felt his lips tremble involuntarily. A groan that shook his ears. Some of the thoughts from his dream state muddled around his head, trying to clear it; he fought hard not to reel back into the grogginess and go back under. All he knew, immediately upon awaking, was the pulse of fire in his side— where he'd had his skin cleaved apart. He shivered, aware suddenly that his clothes were still damp from the rain, small things that made him aware that he was lying on his back, but that this time, he wasn't bound.

_He doesn't think I will—_ Lassiter thought, moving his hands from his stomach where they'd rested to press against his side. He was sickened to discover the blood was still pumping out of him somewhat steadily. _He doesn't think I can—_

Even if he had ever believed in vampires— other than in the form of mosquitoes— Carlton realized slowly that he would have never imagined one who looked like this. And, according to this madman, his own blood was the supposedly the very last score— the golden blood, the blood he'd live on forever. _Was that right? Or was the color different? Had the killer said it would last?_ Lassiter closed his mouth tightly, worried that the screams he'd been saving up had extinguished, gone.

"You're a wild card, that you are, lawman," Saul said huskily, breaking into Lassiter's silence. Lassiter couldn't see his captor and guessed that he was standing behind him or in one of his blind spots. He didn't look very hard; he lacked the desire to focus on Saul, especially not after what he remembered the killer doing after cruelly jabbing him with the Bowie.

"You make me sick," Carlton rasped, pressing the wound harder. He moved his head to get a look at it, pulling his fingers apart so he could look in. Though the wound was still active, the flow of blood was sure but slow— he'd been lucky; the blade must have missed an artery, and with any other luck, there wasn't any nerve damage. So, there was still a chance that he wasn't just going to bleed out here. _It was a— slash, not a stab,_ he told himself with tempered relief. It hurt badly and was going to need medical attention, but his thoughts slowed for a moment to the tempo of the blood rushing in his ears— then to the path of red that had stained his fingers— that he was doing his best to keep within. The warmth he experienced was less of comfort and more of an unwelcome jolt that because his wounds plagued him with pain, he was still very much alive and not about to just slip away should his eyes close.

Saul chuckled. "Suppose I would," he drawled, his boots rocking on the floor. He coughed. "'Specially to a righteous sort like you. But what you got, right there in your veins, is more precious to me than gold— anything with monetary value. Just that little bit I—"

"Stop it," Lassiter interrupted, jerking his head from Saul's voice.

"I get it, you're sensitive about your given worth," Saul said in a placating way. It irritated Carlton. "Suppose I might be too, if I was in your pos-iss-zition, lawman." He moved so that he was standing over Carlton, to the right side he'd slashed. "Don't change nothing, though. I will still have your heart."

Lassiter frowned at his dark eyes, his stomach curdling with new disgust. Saul had said that last sentence in a way eerily similar to a the way his ex-wife Victoria had, in their early days of conquest, shy dates and clumsy kisses. Long before anything had been foreseen to crumble. Lassiter swallowed hard, again turning away from the killer to peer in the opposite direction. It would be just as disturbing if Saul meant it in some oddly romantic way— but he of course didn't. Instead, his meaning was a literal threat— he intended to cut through Lassiter's skin and bones, pry his heart loose from its sinew, veins and arteries . . . and eat it.

It was useless to plead for his life, or even his release— Saul had proven to him that he was willing to do anything to keep Lassiter here as his hostage, until the given time. Lassiter's thoughts drifted back to the words Saul had uttered before their skirmish, the thing about Saul "not playing with his food" really sticking in his throat.

This was look, then, that Lassiter had initially read off of Saul when the killer had first appeared and introduced himself to his intended victim— that he, Carlton Lassiter, was food— was something tasty to eat. Or, in this case, drink. Lassiter wanted to yell, but his fears of what would happen next kept his lips pressed closed. He hadn't wanted to believe it, and had tried to seek out some other explanation that the killer would be studying him that way, but having already seen the serial killer's victims, he should have known better. It was, though, not obvious when looking over the bodies what exactly Saul's intentions had been. Carlton could see it now that he was here and in Saul's clutches, listening to his strange confessions and stories. It seemed that Saul did not have the kind of "appreciation" for his other kills as he had for Lassiter, though he'd still kept a little something from each as if he needed to be reminded that they were unworthy of transforming his weak conscience. With Lassiter, he wouldn't need a material souvenir, because he would have the detective's heart. . . .

_Oh, god. _

Needing to distract himself, Lassiter slowly moved his head back to Saul, focusing on the knife whose blade was now a brownish-red. He noticed quickly that the killer had removed both of his gloves, and had cuts on his fingers from Lassiter's jabs. His eyes left the weapon, landing on the right sleeve on Saul's shirt, noticing that, in the middle of the outer forearm, was a color two shades darker than the red plaid. He lifted his head to get a closer look. He couldn't make out a bullet hole but figured the point of entry might be the triceps; he stared blearily, trying to determine if the shot had pierced or if it was just a graze. Saul's fingers on his right hand twitched, and he shook them out. He was disappointed with himself; in spite of this bad situation, his aim should have been on point. Though, he hadn't really aimed so much as squeezed the trigger in an attempt at self defense while they had rushed at each other. (If this had been the movies, Lassiter would have killed him, point blank— but may have ended up stabbed much worse— bleeding out before he could even crawl ten feet away.) He sighed to himself. Carlton had to lower his head after fifteen or so seconds; any movement seemed to remind him that he had been cut open— almost gutted, like a fish. Well, not quite, but it certainly ached.

He tried to suppress an unwelcome image of the aftermath of fishing with Henry, but the cleaning and gutting of their catches was suddenly turning his stomach. Henry had been diligent on land as well, graciously instructing his guest on the basics as if Carlton had never fished, cleaned or cooked his own catch a day in his life. One more activity he would likely never do again— not out of his choosing not to go, but because he was going to d—

He pressed the wound harder, closing his eyes. _It's only going to make it worse if you think that way— think like a cop, damn it. You're going to make it._ This was not his own "inner voice", but a combination of scolding from a few of his partners, a serious demand that he hang on. As if "they" knew something he didn't.

He let his thoughts wander to his captor, wondering if it were possible to crack the semi-enigmatic shell of this man— or if Lassiter should even attempt such a task. It should seem obvious that Saul had touchy subjects he didn't want to discuss and was more than willing to cut or punch or kick the crap out of Lassiter to shut him up.

Now that he thought about it, Lassiter realized that there was an extra layer of gruff to Saul's speech, more harshness to his teases, as if his breathing were labored. Carlton hadn't paid much attention to the way he'd been holding his arm, if the movements were jerky or if it had hung more limp against his side. He focused to think back, as if anything Saul had done or said stuck in his mind— though this time for another purpose. Were there more layers, was there pain?

"We had ourselves a nice little fight, didn't we?" Saul asked, making Lassiter's shoulders hitch against the ground. He groaned. "Get it outta your system, lawman?" Saul was grinning, though it was easier to see that that grin was strained; the right corner of his mouth seemed to emphasize, pulling its downward towards his shoulder. Lassiter tried again to guess the trajectory; at that angle, he must have at least clipped Saul's outer arm, not enough to become a gusher, but still enough to hurt like hell. He recalled the burst of blood he saw as he charged the killer, the tiny explosion of red splatter in the fortuitous half seconds before Saul left his mark. But even a nick, that could still work to Lassiter's advantage.

He'd nearly forgotten about the blood, his own blood pumping against his fingers, and when he connected the liquid as his, he was momentarily paralyzed by fear. To help himself, he conjured up the image that he'd deemed as his salvation, whether it was just an unhelpful distraction or useful tool in the search for possibility. He needed hope, so he held onto it. The image waved, fading sometimes like a crackling radio signal, but he fought to keep it in place. It was a bright light, brighter than the panic he'd felt before, (_well, almost,_ he amended), a light with the strength of the sun. It kept him grounded, surprisingly blocking off any other light source that he might be tempted to go towards should anything get so bad as— being stabbed.

The skin around the cleave hummed with pins and needles, though the skin just an inch or two back from this had a numbness. At the center, the wound was pumping its fiery, molten heat against his palms. He continued to apply the pressure, and did his best not to be too scared. It was getting harder and harder.

"So, this is all— after me, you're all done?" Lassiter asked, the rush of pain making him braver.

"What's this noble talk now, lawman?" Saul asked gruffly. He knelt down, close enough to touch Lassiter but angled so that he was well out of the detective's reach, should he still possess some fight.

Lassiter had to catch his breath and hold it into his cheeks before trying another sentence. He pressed his fingers harder against the wound. "After you kill me," he repeated slowly, "you won't ever kill again?"

Saul's top lip curled into an amused sneer. "Well, Dee-tech-tive, isn't that nice? You still thinkin' you're the hee-ro—"

"Shut it," Lassiter forced out, more air than words. He was silenced by Saul resting the heavy blade of the hunting knife against his lips. Lassiter breathed shallowly, waiting.

"'Course you won't be my last, lawman," Saul mumbled, pulling the blade from Lassiter's mouth to use it caress Lassiter's cheeks. Lassiter gathered moisture from under his tongue and when he had enough, spat it Saul's direction.

"Now, now," Saul continued, wiping away the spittle from his nose with his free hand. "I see you're jealous— you needn't be. You should be honored— honored that since you chose me and I chose to accept your willing sacrifice." He glowered at Lassiter's scowl. "Once I've got all your strength I will be able to enjoy each kill from this day forth— no more seeking— no more desperation."

Lassiter's chest rose and fell quickly; he tried to banish his panic, but Saul's being so close into his personal space wasn't helping him regain his own air supply. Amusement left Saul's features. He dug the knife into Lassiter's still damp hair, brushing his scalp. "You need to show me you're still a man about dying— even though not no'ne wants it."

Lassiter fought back with anger of his own, resisting the cringe when Saul yanked then cut his hair, and then strung curses at his captor until the man sat back with a wicked grin. "F—"

Air rushed from his lungs as Saul caught his cheek with an open palmed slap. "Watch your mouth, boy. I got me half a mind to—"

_"__Boy_?" Lassiter snapped. "You can't be ser—"

"My _blood''s_ older, my kin, my kind."

"Your— kind?" Lassiter repeated, his voice soft. He'd barely registered the slap, and even wondered now why his cheek felt seared. It was hard to think along these lines, even though Lassiter found it more than plausible that Saul's "kind" were killers— if he really did have a murderous ancestry. But the way Saul used these words, "kin" and "kind", made far-reaching suggestions of more than just simple beliefs in mythologies. And the way the killer behaved— as if he believed in this rabid lone wolf theory or even that his acts were like those of fanged, bloodsucking bat. . . . It was too unreal, but it still brought on a stretch of chills.

"As old as dirt, as sand." A smile flicked across Saul's face, like striking a match. The glow of the flame wasn't even lost; it glowered from within on the killer's tanned cheeks. He chuckled, a low sound, then coughed it out. "Shows how much I like you, lawman— you're gittin' me to talk." He raised an eyebrow, staring appraisingly at Carlton with that too familiar hungry look in his eyes. "Musta been good at what you did— interra-gattin'— gittin' those big bad sons-a-bitches to confess."

Lassiter flinched when the flat of the blade was pressed to his cheek again in a gesture of caress. _"Musta been good at what you did—"_ The killer drew out his words, soothingly; they carried the weight of finality, of convincing— Lassiter shook his head though the action only dizzied his thoughts. The killer spoke as if he were already dead.

"Let's talk about you, lawman," Saul drawled out, continuing the knife's caress down to Carlton's jaw line so he could take another jab at one of the smaller cuts he'd already reopened. "We got time, plenty."

"Thought you already knew everything," Lassiter sneered, gritting his teeth as he felt the blade slink down to the long cuts starting at the crook of his elbow. It didn't seem to bother the killer that Lassiter hand both hands on the wound at his side; Saul made no trial to move them and only worked around this awkward position. Lassiter continued to speak even as the killer poked the blade under his flesh with a gesture of removing the skin from a chicken thigh. "That you— needed to know—"

"I don't know none of your secrets, though. Your desires— the Machismo strength that makes your blood into its worth." Saul kept his eyes mostly on the cutting, going slow, sometimes jerking the blade and at times easing it as if drawing it through soft butter. Every now and then he tilted his head to Lassiter's face.

Lassiter's eyes remained shut mostly, though spent seconds at slits; he was reduced to biting his lips to keep from howling. The noise pressed his cheeks, wanting to be free.

"Come on now, Dee-tech-tive, don't you wanna share some with your old pal, Saul?" the killer asked with a hard grin, pausing in his ritualistic blood play. "I could make it so it hurts ya so much less. . . ."

Right, like he'd made it hurt so much less for all the people he'd already killed? The ones he'd viciously tortured, before stabbing them through the heart? For them, Lassiter felt a surge of anger. He knew he was pushing his luck— hell, he'd been pushing his luck since this morning, and it was all bad anyway— but in his only option of fighting back, Carlton spat out, "Eat shit."

He flinched as the blade cruelly dug deeper into him before retreating. Another flinch as he saw Saul ball a hard fist, lift it above Lassiter's face and start to drop it into what he was considering a lip splitting or teeth shattering blow. He snapped his head to the side, regretting the movement, but the painful blow never came. Lassiter glanced up a few seconds later; Saul's fist was still poised above his face, but the muscles in his hands, arm and neck had tensed. The killer flicked his head like a canine towards the shadows beyond them as if he possessed a super sense of hearing.

Silence, like the small pool of dim light that surrounded them grew in wider and wider concentric circles, until the only other sound besides their breathing was of footsteps, one set, alternately thudding the half dirt, half wooden floors. Carlton's chest tightened with surprise, his eyes leaving Saul's fist and looking back as far as he could tilt his head, in search. A tiny cry escaped his lips— the scream, the one from long ago, reduced to this.

Saul's muscles unclenched, and he shook loose from his frozen position, as if remembering he had a captive he needed to keep hidden. His mouth dipped at Lassiter's cry, and then he moved.

Carlton was working up another cry, louder, longer, less breath and hiss, his eyes still tilted away from his captor. He caught the movement only when Saul was on him, both hands on his shoulders, one hand still tightly gripping the knife. Saul winced, baring his teeth at the gunshot wound on his right shoulder, before whipping his head back towards Lassiter and ducking low. He muttered some curses under his breath.

Saul, Lassiter noted with some lightheadedness, acted like a wolf guarding his food from other predators. Lassiter wasn't sure he could move; there was still a slow ooze of blood coming out of his side, despite the pressure of his palm over it. It was the best for now— should he ever get out of here, he needed to go straight to the ER. _If, if, if._

Carlton hissed sharply as he was jerked from his prone state on the floor; the tip of the blade angled at his throat just above his Adam's apple forced anymore voice down to hover trapped under his knife held at his throat. As Saul's hand clamped down over his mouth, Lassiter realized that this was the first time Saul had shown any fear— were they about to be discovered? Moving hurt like a bitch, but it wasn't impossible. Lassiter now wondered if he could move, should he have to, and could stand, and even run— or hobble— to get away from his captor. Or, he knew he could try those things. The pain in his side was blinding; he had both hands pressed to the wound, aware that Saul was holding him in an awkward and uncomfortable position, but still smart enough to know he needed to salvage any strength. Now was not the time for attempted heroics— with the Bowie— the murder weapon of at least three others— against his throat.

Lassiter's upper back was against Saul's knees, his head nearly in Saul's lap; he realized that Saul hadn't managed to pull him up fully into a sitting position. He didn't do this, carry his victims around until after they were lifeless— he got them quickly immobilized and then played. Or maybe the bullet's graze had hurt him enough to weaken the muscles in his right arm. He couldn't have this, his game threatened, or his food— Lassiter shivered, his thought uncompleted as a distant voice challenged the reign of the silence.

Cold terror— there was no other appropriate word, since fear did not even begin to cut it— shot into Lassiter's throat, then immediately dropped the lead weight of its implication into the pit of his stomach when Lassiter heard the voice call out its "Hello?" for the second time. At first, he thought his ears might have been playing tricks, but why they'd chose _that_ voice to tease him with a possible rescue— made no sense.

Lassiter was sure Saul could feel the increased tension in his body; they both listened to the slow footsteps and the voice call out again, but they couldn't see anyone yet. Lassiter had his eyes glued to the darkness in front of them, praying that his ears _were_ really playing tricks on him, because he wondered what kind of protection this unarmed civilian could offer; he was more likely to end up as the King of Hearts killer's next victim— well, after KOHK had finished with him.

Lassiter wondered if he had both the strength to pry Saul's dirty hand from his mouth and yell out to the approaching figure to run and get help. He decided to try, no longer worrying over the knife as much as he slowly made his move, releasing his left hand from its support on his wound and rising it towards Saul's arm. Saul wasn't stupid; he dug the knife harder against Lassiter's skin.

"Don't you dare try anything funny, lawman," Saul hissed in ear.

Even moving the one hand from the wound had left Lassiter with a dizziness; he told himself he could steady the sudden tilting by grabbing Saul's arm, which he did, and then grunted when he felt the Bowie pierce his skin.

"I said, do as your told," Saul warned angrily. He'd kept his voice low, but the footsteps had paused.

_Spencer, please,_ Lassiter silently pleaded, _turn around and run._ He had enough on his plate already, and wasn't sure if he'd be capable of keeping Shawn safe. After all, he was doing a bang up job with himself.

* * *

He'd wandered for a while; it was hard to tell in the dimly light, shadowy inside, even with his penlight as guidance. Though it had been terribly difficult, Shawn had managed to mostly refrain from speaking to himself as he'd walked, knowing he should keep his ears open just in case. It paid off, though he had only been able to make out once voice— unfamiliar as it was, it seemed to be speaking to another, one who wouldn't or couldn't answer.

Shawn moved towards this voice carefully, sticking to the shadows, starting to become afraid at what he might find once he stepped into the full light. He covered his penlight with his fingers, keeping it on just in case but trying not to give himself away. The shadows seemed to offer a wall of protection similar to a two way mirror— he could see out but no one could see him. Just where the hell was Lassiter, if he really was here? Goose bumps rose on his skin. This space seemed vast; Shawn had seen the stairs and had considered climbing them but decided to check the ground area first. He paused, close to a "break" in the shadow wall, where it was darker. He strained his eyes, trying to make out if he was really seeing what—

As soon as Shawn's eyes adjusted, his breath iced— he could see two figures, one crouched, gripping tightly in his right hand the dark gray hilt of a Bowie hunting knife and pressing its tip against the Adam's apple of the other figure, who was propped up half in a sitting position. The man with the weapon was also holding his left hand across the mouth of the other. The blue eyes of this second figure, which had glared at Shawn thousands of times with hatred, disgust, skepticism and myriad other expressions— which included a reluctant admiration— were sweeping the shadows with an alert apprehension.

Shawn wasn't close enough to determine if the sweat and paleness on Lassiter's face were there out of some kind of fear, or because of some pain— but it was likely a tie. He could see some slashes of red that shouldn't be there on the detective's body, and winced. He could also see that Lassiter knew someone was there in the shadow, and had dropped the guard from his eyes and tried to use them to speak. There was urgency, but Shawn couldn't accurately read the warning. From his vantage point, Shawn scanned the way Lassiter was lying on the floor, the detective's long legs draped from his body as if he were relaxed, one hand clutching the arm of the hand over his mouth and the other clutching his right side awkwardly.

The muscles and veins in the killer's arms bulged, but he looked out into the shadows, tensed for a different reason. To Shawn, it seemed like the only way he could get Lassiter in such a vulnerable position was that he'd someone managed to seriously injure the detective. Otherwise, even with weapon to his throat, Lassiter would be more in control, muscles taut, poised for fight or flight. Shawn suppressed a chill. Something was very wrong, but at the least, Shawn couldn't make out many cuts on Lassiter's face, though it seemed his chest had been sliced into pretty damn badly, as well as his arm and hands; it was difficult to pinpoint where all the blood on Lassiter's white shirt could have come from. Shawn winced, lurching forward within his own head. This was worse, much worse, than he could have ever— except death. But the detective was still alive.

The fingers of Lassiter's right hand came loose from the killer's wrist, uncurling as if in slow motion, sliding down the man's arm to drop to Lassiter's stomach. Lassiter's forehead pinched, and he squeezed his eyes closed tightly. When they opened again, Lassiter had to fight for a similar alertness he'd had before, it was very strained. The message had changed from "run" to "help", though Shawn still couldn't "read" these "words".

No, this did not look good. Not at all.

The air was charged— both men were waiting for the intruder to appear; Shawn receded, this time biting his tongue. Had he made a key mistake by calling out, "Hello?" Well, he couldn't take it back now. What he needed to do was cause a distraction that would require a look-see; Shawn knew he had to get the man— which he deduced, with a cold spike of fear, was none other than the mysterious serial killer— to let go of Lassiter. Even if Lassiter was hurt, Shawn knew he was in charge of getting the both of them out of here safely.

He didn't know if he could— but he knew he had to do something, and soon.


	8. Chapter 7: Who's Fooling Who Here

**Chapter Seven: I'm Not Sure Who's Fooling Who Here**

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Author's Note: Billions of thank you's and hugs to all my reviewers! :) Thank you for your continued support, means the world! Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are still welcome and greatly appreciated.

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"Detective O'Hara," Vick called as she approached Juliet's desk. Juliet looked up expectantly; ten minutes ago she had set up the tracking on Lassiter's cell phone GPS, and had just finished the difficult call of notifying the young woman's family of her death. The woman's sister Juliet had spoken to had launched into hysterical sobbing for a stretch, promising through shaky words that she would be down soon to make an ID; Juliet needed some good news. Her worry had not abated, though her plan of action helped to steady her nerves.

This was the perfect opportunity to ask the Chief if she knew anything about Lassiter. Before she could form her thoughts, Vick continued, "Do you have any idea where your partner is? I've tried his cell phone three times—"

"Straight to voice mail?" Juliet interrupted. She used the arms of the chair to help her stand.

"Well, yes," Vick said, falling back a step. She arched an eyebrow, waiting.

Juliet hesitated, wondering suddenly if she should cover for Lassiter in his absence— they did occasionally cover for each other, but this was— different. She cleared her throat. "No, I don't, but I'm running a trace on his GPS."

Vick frowned, tapping her foot. Juliet saw on her face that Vick was considering her actions a waste of manpower; after all, Vick clearly didn't find cause for worry after only trying Lassiter's cell phone three times.

"Last time I saw— or heard from him, Chief," Juliet steered Vick towards her reasoning, "was when you told me to leave his office so you could speak privately with him."

Vick sighed. "Detective . . ."

"It could be nothing," Juliet broke in gently, "but it's not like him not to pick up." She allowed the unspoken question to hang in the air, curious as to just what their Chief could have said to him that may have chased him off.

Now that the words were said to her directly, Vick actually noticed his absence with a small throw of breath. Lassiter was a staple at this precinct— bad day or not. The last time she had seen him he'd been eager to please— a level he didn't usually stoop to, but had known there were things of the day he'd needed to compensate for.

So, with that in mind, didn't it make less sense for him just to disappear without telling anyone?

Karen allowed her mind to wander back to their earlier conversation, staying sharp for clues or tells. Her Junior Detective waited, biting her lips to keep herself from speaking. As Karen mentally sorted through her exchange with Lassiter in the Head Detective's office, she realized how good it was his partner had already taken an initiative to locate him. _It could be nothing,_ Vick repeated to herself quietly, _but then again, there could be something there._

* * *

Shawn's need to act pitched him forward, mentally, pinching him hard on the back of the neck. It was all he could do to keep from crying out, a thrill of anguish. Crumpling his fist as if it were a used hamburger wrapper, Shawn pressed his fingers against his teeth. The recent past filtered in, the flimsy excuse he'd used to get himself— and Lassiter— into this mess while the scene before him remained suspended, both men "frozen", as if they were going to stay like that. As if the slashes on Lassiter's arms didn't hurt, and instead were merely paint, or red dye #3.

_"Hello? SBPD tip line?" He'd disguised his voice, pulling it back into his throat, speaking in short puffs. He thrown in the stutter at the last moment, thinking at the time it added to the effect of 'crazy person calling in ludicrous and 97.2% unreliable__ tip.' "I wanted to notify you— I think I know where that-that, uh, 'Hearts Cards' killer from the news is-is-is hiding out. Describe it? Uh, well, sure. Creepy. Creeeepppeeee. Do you uh, need me to spell it out for you?" He'd argued a little with the officer, whom he guessed was Dobson, but had finally managed to eke out the address. "I'm serious with this one. Got a gut feeling, sir. Think it's the one."_

He'd been thanked flatly, and had assumed that it was likely nothing would come of it. There was only the slightest chance that he was right; after all, he hadn't seen anyone go in or out of the building.

But seriously, did the IA have to know that? Certainly not, especially if there was a chance Shawn could sweeten the deal by making Juliet happy, making her more open to flirting with him later on or for the next time he needed a favor. He didn't understand it, but Juliet really looked up to Lassiter proudly, seeming to mostly dismiss his grumpiness as "part of the package". As if whatever she considered Lassiter's "good side" made up for all the rest. Maybe because the two had to spend so much time together, she could easier empathize with her partner's moods. If Lassiter was upset— angry or downtrodden, then eventually her sunny side dipped or dimmed for the day. She snapped more frequently during these moods, was harsher, unlike herself. Oddly, Juliet's mood had little effect on Lassiter, who mostly remained, in Shawn's opinion, "sunny side down", with the unlikely chance that there really was a "sunny side" unless it was locked up in a box in some secret, undisclosed location that Lassiter would never tell another living soul about.

Except Shawn had witnessed the most impossible— Juliet drawing out Lassiter's impeccable smile, his laugh. During these times, Shawn had been torn from staying still out of shock, or running up and somehow ruining the moment; as much as he liked to see Lassiter scowl, he hated to see Juliet follow suit. It was always tough; the few times he'd been there as it first unfolded, he'd slid in gently, pretending to join in before starting to mock. He would prep Juliet so she would still fall to his charms, before trying to make Lassiter as miserable as possible. Sometimes it worked.

_If you don't do something, you idiot, you'll never get another chance to piss off Lassie again,_ a voice scolded him harshly from within. Right, he'd come here to help, fix things if they'd needed to be fixed; he should have brought the appropriate tools. All he had on him that could be useful was his cell phone— and the pen light from his keys. _Think, think._ Pulling further back into the shadows, Shawn quietly pulled his phone out while keeping his covered pen light at his side. The battery was lower than before; this wasn't the best location to call from anyway. He put his phone away and backed up further, still keeping an eye on the pair. There had to be a way around them, right?

Shawn pushed his arm out behind him, groping for structure. This place was not at all what it appeared to be on the outside; the shadows might quickly give way to a pillar or a wall, and he couldn't risk making any sounds this close to them.

He backed up and groped his way back to the stairs, vacant and more well lit. He went to the first step, staring up as far as the first landing; his stomach flipped when he caught a downward zigzag of spotty blood drying on the steps. There was more of it on a railing five steps up, and an untidy puddle at the bottom, centimeters from Shawn's sneakers.

He bounced on his toes, electing to take a few wide steps backwards. Shawn glanced to right, observing the gray shadows layered with brown and charcoal from the direction he'd probably come from. His stomach flipped again, and without thinking the plan through, he took a running leap towards the stairs, landing loudly on the second step. His weight clanked the metal; he jumped up the rest of the stairs two at a time, the entire time keeping one eye peeled towards the shadows.

Shawn's breath caught as he listened, leaning towards the further shadows of the first landing. There were more stairs, but he wasn't sure if he should try to go higher. _What am I going to do if— _Shawn pressed his shoes against the stairs for traction; if _Lassiter_ was no match for this man, how was _he_ going to fair?

_I should have— gotten here sooner,_ he thought miserably as he waited for reaction to the noise he'd created. Shawn swallowed, torn between an excitement of actually finding Santa Barbara's latest known of serial killer, and a chastisement that he found thrill in something this rotten. After all, the victim this was not merely a stranger, a person he had no connections to whatsoever. _It'll be okay,_ Shawn willed.

As soon as he could make out footsteps , Shawn grabbed the railing on the left side of the stairs and swung himself over in the shadows below. He held on, though his arms shook, so he could lower himself and close the distance to the ground before he dropped into the dark space. He prepared to land, proud to say he was a like a cat who always landed on its feet, though the landing jarred him up to the top of his head. Shawn listened, holding his breath; footsteps getting closer. In the darkness, he spared a grin— Lassiter had been left unguarded. This was his best chance to help the detective— _really_ help him this time. He got to his feet and sprinted away from the stairs, retracing his groping through the darkness that had brought him here, hurrying to beat the killer back.

* * *

The sounds of commotion reached them, though the clanging had dulled by then. Lassiter's shoulders had knotted further; he became less aware that Saul was holding onto him as his mind drifted; _why can't that idiot just go? He's no good at heroics. _

Saul grumbled under his breath. "Someone's still here with us," he informed Lassiter, as if he didn't know. Saul let go of Lassiter, easing Lassiter's shoulders to the ground as he rocked back onto his feet, still in a crouch. Lassiter barely dared to breathe as the blade backed away from his throat, though he was more than glad that the killer had released his mouth.

Digging around in his pocket, Saul retrieved a kerchief he'd already used a few times to wipe Lassiter's blood— perhaps others' as well— from the Bowie's blade. Balling it quickly, he forced Lassiter to accept the cloth; Lassiter grimaced as the metallic taste of still wet blood hit his tongue. Getting to his feet, Saul leered over the unbound detective, his wolfish grin of satisfaction molding quickly to a frown, the only prelude before Saul's boot caught Carlton's sternum hard enough to knock the back of his head and shoulder blades hard against the floor. Lassiter groaned. "Thought I told you not to try anything funny— 'cause you still ain't going nowhere," he drawled, casting a long glance at his captive.

Lassiter cursed at him through the wad of cloth, glaring back with hard eyes.

"Be good, lawman," Saul hissed with a small chuckle, holding the glance on his prisoner with an unspoken warning— _how easy it would be to stab this intruder dead in a few seconds flat, feeling nothing. This intruder, like fresh meat. . . . _

Lassiter flicked his eyes away until he heard Saul's retreating footsteps, going backwards into another clump of shadows— likely with an intent to cut off whomever was out there— he closed his eyes at the unwanted pun. Selfishly, he worried that he would be blamed for anything bad that should happen to Shawn Spencer— because, even as a prisoner, he was still the officer of a the law and therefore would/ should/ could be held responsible. He sighed, breathing through his nose. He didn't dare move his hands away again from his side; the loss of blood had already made him lightheaded enough.

No doubt, Saul wouldn't be gone long. Lassiter had already attempted escape three times— was it two? Or more than three? Leaving Lassiter alone certainly didn't mean there was trust involved; the killer knew that—_ that I can't run away. _

He didn't dare— especially not with both Spencer and Saul out of sight.

* * *

Shawn materialized from the shadows slowly, quietly, hold a finger against his lips as he walked towards Lassiter. "Shh," he mouthed, as if Lassiter had become agitated by Shawn's sudden presence and was trying to cry out.

The closer he got to the fallen detective, the harder Shawn had to force his feet forward; not that he _wanted_ to ran away, per say. This man he was going towards was different than the angry, slightly humiliated bundle of limbs and death glares Shawn had seen in a puddle of hot coffee this morning. _But it was the same man— Head Detective Carlton Lassiter— wasn't it?_ Shawn found himself nodding at his own stupid question; though it was blatant— in spite of the physical damage he'd already sustained (that Shawn could see)— that other things were very wrong. The closer he got, the guiltier Shawn felt; he did not like towering above the prone detective. Shawn felt goose bumps on the back of his neck; the cloth had not been secured in the detective's mouth, yet Lassiter had not made one attempt to remove it.

In spite of any differences— hell, of the many differences— between the two, Shawn would have bet on his own life that the day would never come that he would see with his own eyes Carlton Lassiter scared in this way, as if he were facing a void, or a death, after having something crucial to his essence violently stolen. This was the cause of the emptiness on Lassiter's face, Shawn was certain, and not because the detective had been injured physically. Shawn suppressed a shiver; this was a temporary situation; all Shawn had to do was get Lassiter far away from here. He formulated a plan quickly, skimming over chinks in the armor; just get the detective back to his Crown Vic where they could call for help via police radio. Shawn envisioned the safety of this vehicle, holding them against the killer's wrath until help arrived.

Lassiter remained still, watching Shawn move towards him; every so often he cocked his ears and flicked his eyes in the direction that Saul had gone. Instead of trying to speak, he gingerly moved his head from side to side, cursing that Spencer was not able to "read" what he was saying. He prepared a boat load of expletives he hoped to spout in a low, threatening tone— with enough of a twist to send Spencer on his way fast.

But he feared there would be too much strain in his voice to be accurately convincing.

Shawn gasped aloud when he saw how deep the cuts were across the detective's chest and down his arms. "Oh, my god," Shawn muttered. Glancing at the shadows beyond, he dropped to his knees and reached for a corner of the fabric that was sticking out of Lassiter's mouth. He tugged carefully; Lassiter kept his eyes on Spencer the entire time, working on his best angry glare. (He also feared these may have all been spent on Saul.)

There was a strange, unreadable mix of emotion in Lassiter's eyes— some were obvious, no doubt. Pain, worry, anger— Shawn felt special relief to see that so clearly. "Lassie, the spirits told me, um." Lassiter kept his eyes pinned to Spencer's face until Spencer pulled the whole handkerchief from his mouth. "They told me—"

His mouth free again, Lassiter worked his jaw a couple times while Spencer continued to gape. "What the—" he broke off, gasping. The blood was still sour in his mouth. "What the hell are you doing here, Spencer?" He turned his head carefully to spit, though gave up when he realized he didn't have enough saliva available to moisten his tongue.

"What am I?" Shawn repeated, staring. He was unnerved at the rasping in Lassiter's tone. "Geez, awesome gratitude for your rescuer, Lassie."

He frowned, looking over all the cuts again; it was irrelevant to ask if Lassiter had been hurt. He noticed that the earlier blemishes from Lassiter's mishaps this morning at the station had been further assaulted; his eyes strayed to Lassiter's hands, pressed against his right side. Both palms were hiding something; Lassiter's eyes were pinched and he looked as if he'd aged a few years since the last time Shawn had seen him. Even more disconcerting to Shawn was that he could see Lassiter's anger was an act— the detective was fighting very hard for this emotion to be prominent, to fool Shawn into being cowed. "You know, I could ask you the same thing."

Lassiter grimaced, unsure if his face fell into a flush or went paler. _That's none of your goddamn business._ He went on, according to plan, minus the long string of expletives he had wanted for emphasis. "You need to get your ass out of here, pronto." He tried not to wince, but carrying on in his usual tone— forcing his annoyance to show— was also pulling on his wounded side. Against the ground, he moved his head back and forth. "I'm serious, Spencer. He's smart— he'll be back soon— he can't find you here."

"Who can't?"

"The _serial killer_, you moron," Lassiter growled, wincing immediately. "The one expert human carver."

Running a hand through his hair nervously, Shawn took a long look into the shadows surrounding them. He could no longer hear the man's footsteps, but figured he didn't have much time before he returned. Doing his best not to hyperventilate, Shawn got closer to Lassiter's left side. "Come on, we have a limited window here."

Lassiter shook his head carefully, still working to hold his trademark glare steady. "I can't."

_Why was Lassiter resisting? _He fidgeted, not prepared for Lassiter to take up a tactic such as this. Worst case scenario, Shawn had thought, was that they'd be caught in the act of escaping by the killer. "This is the worst time to be stubborn, Lassie," he snapped quietly. "This—"

"Go without me."

Shawn's mouth dropped open. "What the hell? You _want_ to stay here?"

The anger stretched across Lassiter's face; he winced at the jaw. "'Course not." He took a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts and speak quickly to avoid any trembling speech. "Look, Spencer, once you're a safe distance away, call backup and— EMTs," he added with a hush.

Shawn frowned. "Take it easy, Lassie."

The more Spencer looked him over, apparently taking in all the of his injuries, the angrier Lassiter grew. "You aren't listening. He's got a knife— and a 2x4. He's got my guns." Lassiter closed his eyes for a moment. _He's got my life._ He felt ashamed, now that there was another person here, and that it was Spencer no less, seeing all of his mistakes up close. The memory of Saul licking his blood off the tip of the Bowie came unbidden. Lassiter hissed. "If you stay, you'll be putting yourself at an unnecessary risk—"

As Lassiter spoke, Shawn became transfixed by the blood, both dried and fresh, covering Lassiter's neck, arms and chest. Lassiter's long fingers still hadn't crept away from his side; Shawn's eyes narrowed as he continued to stare.

"And for as much as you are"— he stopped himself before he could utter 'thorn in my side'— "a childish, incompetent pain in the neck, Spencer, I would never wish this on you. Now do yourself a favor and make like Guster at the sight of blood."

Lassiter's words hit Shawn with more guilt— obviously, Lassiter was a captive, injured and apprehensive— but he was still playing the role of good and stubborn hard-ass cop— and trying to act as a shield. _"I would never wish this on you." _Shawn gulped, wondering if he could feel more low than this moment right now.

Lassiter frowned at Spencer's stubborn hesitation. His eyes flashed. "_Leave_. _Go. Skidaddle."_ He knew he flushed at the word 'skidaddle'; it was one he'd picked up, of what Saul might say. It caused a ripple of shiver at the back of his neck. "You aren't listening—"

"No, _you_ aren't," Shawn shot back. "I know that—"

"I can't move, okay?" Lassiter deflected. His nervousness was returning, full force. Saul was going to come back any second, he just knew. "M-my ankle—"

Shawn's eyes narrowed. Lassiter had just stuttered; _he never did that_. "Lassie—"

"Please, Spencer," Lassiter whispered, his voice so soft Shawn had to lean in to hear. When Shawn was close, Lassiter snapped, "What the hell is wrong with you? Go get some fucking help."

Shawn's mouth dropped open again. The detective's orders were not as effective as he'd intended— his voice was thick with pain, breaking across several words. "I'm it, you ingrateful bastard," Shawn retorted. "I'm here to help."

"Spencer, you're not a cop," he shot back bitterly. "Forget about helping me— you're just not capable."

When Shawn picked up the nervous whine in Lassiter's words, he grabbed the detective's shoulder with purpose. He hoped Lassiter hadn't begun to identify with his captor; though Gus might say this was impossible in such a short time— but then again, Shawn didn't know for certain how long the detective had been here.

Lassiter's blue eyes fixed Shawn with tightness— fear, it was fear, Shawn realized. "Way to give a productive and super effective murder solving psychic detective credit, Lassie," he quipped sarcastically, waiting for the blue eyes to roll away in their typical annoyance from him. Lassiter only blinked.

"Pshaw, Lassie," Shawn continued nervously. "I can't believe you'd really think I'd just leave and throw you to the wolves, just because I'm not a cop."

Lassiter choked back an involuntary sob, loosing a guttural sound that made Shawn fall back. In doing so, he noticed ligature marks on the detective's wrists. Lassiter had been restrained; why was he not now? "He untied you?" Shawn asked, kicking himself for not seeing the marks sooner; the open bloody wounds were, however, distracting.

Carlton sighed. He thought about falling silent, but figured from experience silence would only make Spencer more obnoxious in his pursuit for information. "No. I— I was trying to get away. We were fighting—"

"Trying to get away," Shawn repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Then why can't you let me help you? Don't give me that 'not a cop' bullshit again—"

"Look, in my inner jacket pocket," Lassiter cut in with an awkward jerk of his head towards his right side, "there's a— a pin wrapped in a cloth."

"Okay," Shawn said. He saw Lassiter made no attempt to move his hands from his side; Shawn's eyes narrowed again. The smell of blood was sharp, almost canceling out the musky odor of sweat. He gulped. "But you didn't answer my question."

Lassiter frowned when Spencer didn't move. He jerked his head again towards where he'd put it. "Get it, and take it to the Chief."

"What? Me?" Shawn asked dumbly, finally let it sink in that the detective expected him to retrieve the pin. He knelt forward, carefully peeling back the jacket by a small sticky button. Lassiter held still, waiting until Spencer had the wad of cloth in his hand before gritting his teeth, snarling, "Get the hell out and get some _real_ help," he ordered.

Shawn pulled back the corners of the cloth slowly; it was so white and clean compared to that rough, gray and bloodied fabric that had been shoved into Lassiter's mouth. Shawn swallowed, his heart picking up a few extra beats when his saw the prize at the center— a 20 cm long silver hat pin with a red Art Deco style teardrop topper. "Where did you find this?" he asked.

"There was a box— filled with them," Lassiter provided, turning his head. He had no idea where that room was; too much had happened and he'd long ago lost his sense of direction. "Didn't think— one would be missed."

"Can you stand? I know you said your ankle was— what?" Shawn asked.

"Twisted— long story. Too long. You need to go."

Again, Shawn pretend not hear. "I bet you can stand all right." He pursed his lips at Lassiter's warning glare. "Careful, Lassie, your face will freeze like that."

"Shut the hell up," Lassiter whispered angrily.

"Let's try it, dude. You can lean on me, okay?"

Echoing footsteps resounded chills through both of them, the call from the shadows in a deep, rustic sounding voice almost made Shawn pee his pants. "You behaving yourself, lawman?"

Shawn tensed, his arms shaking up to his shoulders, which tied themselves in knots. Lassiter froze, tensing as well. "God, will you go? I can't protect you so well," Lassiter hissed. "He just wants me. That means you still have a chance to save your own hide."

Shawn didn't register Lassiter's latest words. He bit down to keep his teeth from chattering; how much time had passed to allow the killer to return this soon? He cursed his bad attempt at a distraction. There was a flash of steel in the man's husky tone. Shawn foolishly ducked his head as if this action could serve to hide him from the approach.

"Get out of here before he sees you," Lassiter pleaded for the hundredth time, his tone thin. "Run."

The combination of these two voices, one built up and one, the important one, so reduced, made Shawn's head spin; he wanted to run away very badly but he knew in his gut he couldn't be chickenshit and leave Lassiter alone with this man again. Shawn inhaled and exhaled as deeply as his racing mind would allow, then plastered a smile onto his face for Lassiter's benefit.

"He's possessive, dangerous, murderous," Lassiter mumbled, not liking that Spencer had the nerve to smile at a time like this. "He _will kill you_."

"Relax, Lassie," Shawn said softly. "I've got a plan. A good one." He nodded as the detective stared back, clearly horrified. Carefully, Shawn got to his feet, facing the direction of shadows where he'd heard the footsteps coming from. He heard them again, getting closer. Shawn took two steps towards these shadows, making of himself a paltry shield between Lassiter and the returning killer. Shaking like a leaf in a strong wind, Shawn ignored Lassiter's whispered curses, and waited to come face to face with the King of Hearts Serial Killer.

He knew this was a mistake, and that Lassiter was still the adult in the situation, even in that terrible condition. But he also knew he had to do this, scared shitless or not. _I made this mess, and now I have to clean it up, even if I only have bargain brand paper towels to do it._ Shawn shot a glance over his shoulder at Lassiter, hoping to strengthen his determination to stay. Instead, the glance made him want to scream. From this angle, he could see a thick, red stain fanning out in small dots from under Lassiter's hands. Forcing himself to look away, Shawn took a deep breath. He was going to have to make this face off count— no matter what.


	9. Chapter 8: The Border Breaking Point

Author's Note: Thank you so much to all of my reviewers and readers and your continued support of this story! Thank you also for your patience waiting for the next update— my schedule got so busy! Hope the length makes up a little for the long wait. :) As always, reviews and feedback are welcomed and appreciated, and if you feel the need to criticize, please be constructive. Enjoy!

There are minor references to Season One's "Poker? I Barely Know Her" and Season Three's "Daredevils!" and "Lassie Did A Bad, Bad Thing" in this chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Eight: Drop Him At The Border Breaking Point**

* * *

"Hide, you idiot," Lassiter insisted.

"No," Shawn shot back.

"What you're thinking, it's suicide," Lassiter hissed, his worry evident.

Shawn frowned, wishing Lassiter hadn't said that. He was doing his best to be brave, though it struck him as comical that he really thought he could protect Lassiter without a loaded weapon of some kind— something other than his mouth.

"You _see_ what he did to me?"

Shawn's hands trembled as Lassiter's voice broke again, ending with a frustrated sigh.

The faker cast a half glance over his shoulder, but didn't quite look at Lassiter; Carlton sighed again. He was furious at Spencer's stubbornness, an emotion that cost him in mental strength— and he knew he would have to waste valuable and limited physical strength to get Spencer out of harm's way.

Lassiter was too tired to try to understand Spencer's reasoning, what he thought he could accomplish by this asinine act. Instead, finger by finger, Lassiter peeled his left hand off his side wound, careful to keep his right tightly in place.

He swept his arm out behind him, knowing Spencer was close to his head though he could only see a little from the corner of his eye. Lassiter ignored the cost of the exertion, the movement straining every cut and ache and wound; he had one goal in mind and was determined to achieve it even if the cost was his consciousness for now.

His fingers grappled at air for too many seconds; a fear bunched up like air inside his cheeks. He stretched, emitting a low groan. He could hear Saul's footsteps echoing in his ears. Lassiter's hand closed around something solid, ankle or calf, he hadn't a clue.

"Lassie!" Spencer hissed, throwing his head back all the way this time. "Let go!"

His arm bent at the elbow at this awkward angle, Lassiter still gripped as tightly as he could, held on— and yanked; Spencer wasn't expecting such a quick pull, and his feet were not planted as stubbornly as he'd thought. Startled, Shawn could only open his mouth but not cry out as he stumbled back, losing his balance as he fell over Lassiter's arm.

Because Shawn landed on his back at the same time Saul hissed, "Low to the ground," Shawn missed it. Lassiter, however, did not. His body tensed, and he released Shawn's ankle, retracting it back to his wound.

"Why did you fucking do that?" Shawn grumbled, his eyes widening as they zeroed in on the finger print circle of blood around his leg. "Lass—"

"Shh," Lassiter hushed.

"I know you're athere, interloper. Not nothing is gonna make me let him go," Saul called from the shadows. "The Dee-tech-tive stays with me."

_Shit, shit, shit._ Quickly, Shawn scooted into a sitting position, then into a crouch. His eyes fell on the deep slashes just below Lassiter's collarbone; the blood glistened. Blood, pain, these were his motivations, along with guilt he couldn't imagine he could ever bury and allow it to stay buried. Shawn sprang to his feet, standing next to Lassiter this time instead of in front of him. Swallowing his fear in a dry gulp, Shawn called out, "So you know I'm here. I'm psychic, and I was drawn here to find you."

Lassiter made a choking sound. He grimaced, his face screwed up in a mix— then it went blank.

The man's voice echoed in Shawn's head; he had no idea what to make of the possessiveness of the killer's statements— but then, hadn't Lassiter just warned him?

Slow footsteps continued closer, but as yet, Shawn had not seen the man up close. He froze when there was a low chuckle followed by a sharp cough, then a word. "Unacceptable."

"Uh-hrr?" Shawn grunted, raising his eyes to the wall of shadows. Next to him, Shawn caught Lassiter relax slightly, in that he allowed his eyes to close for a few seconds.

"He doesn't want you— take it as a cue to get the hell away from this place," Lassiter said in a low voice, his head turned in Shawn's direction.

"I can't just leave you here," Shawn said through clenched teeth. _Not now that I know for sure. _He cleared his throat, or tried to; his mouth had gone dry again out of fear that he may not be able to talk his way— and Lassie's— out of this. As he fought for words, the killer broke through the shadows, standing about six feet away. He didn't know what he was expecting— especially since he'd already seen the killer once, crouched down, his bulky muscles straining his shirt. But the man looked stronger now at his full height. Shawn felt exposed as the man took obvious time looking him up and down; his focus stayed on the Bowie held point down at the man's side— its blade still wet with Lassiter's blood.

Saul shook his head slowly as his eyes drifted back up to Shawn's face. "Your heart's no good to me— no way, no how." He cocked his head to one side, taking a long look at Lassiter's prone form as easily he closed the gap of two feet, keeping his eyes on the detective until seeming to remember Shawn was still there. The killer stopped, and again took his time looking Shawn over inch by inch. Shawn squirmed under the scrutiny, wanting desperately to look away yet found himself morbidly intrigued to understand what the killer was saying about his heart and why it wasn't "any good". Since he was unable to look away, Shawn made himself observe the killer's form, looking for obvious wounds or a point of weakness. He noticed what may have been blood on man's right arm, just above the elbow; it was hard to tell because the flannel shirt he wore was also red— but then Shawn noticed that, even as the man stood still, he seemed to be favoring the arm in a subtle way. Inwardly, Shawn cheered, knowing that some kind of hand-to-hand combat must have taken place and that Lassiter must have been able to fight back. There were other signs of this too, small cuts on the man's face, his arms— but still the evidence chilled Shawn, because Lassiter looked so much more abused than the killer did.

There was a bit of red on the man's lips, and more caught in the start of stubble on the man's chin— red that couldn't be anything else besides blood and blood that looked like it was not caused by an injury. Shawn's breath stopped in his throat.

Now only four feet away, when the killer took a step forward, Shawn reacted by taking one back, wincing when he realized what he'd done. In truth, seeing the killer face to face, so to speak, had a yellow streak of cowardice running through him— and he wanted to bolt so badly, he wanted to save himself— but how could he just leave? He flicked another long glance at Lassiter, his eyes narrowing again as he took in Lassiter's hands pressed diligently to his side. Shawn swallowed hard, afraid of what the detective could be concealing.

It must be something bad.

Bad enough to make Lassiter turn over evidence to Shawn, to tell him repeatedly to run away, to resist Shawn's help? Icy cold flashed through Shawn's bones; he realized suddenly that he'd had no idea just what he was walking into— and that Lassiter probably had had no idea either.

Shawn stumbled backwards, gripping his head. In truth, his head was spinning fiercely and he had to choke back whatever he had eaten last that was threatening to come back up, but he'd decided in the heat of the moment that he needed to sell this, to buy some time before the killer got too close to them— before the killer had control again.

"I'm sensing, I'm sensing—"

"Granddad warned me about you traveling sideshow types," Saul said, lifting the tip of his knife to point at Shawn.

Shawn ignored him, fueled on by Lassiter's groan at his "act". "—I'm sensing you had a special woman in your life."

"'Old bones,' he told me once— 'but as naive as a newborn calf'."

Shawn froze as the killer's words seized him; he had the sensation of being lassoed around the neck, the noose pulled tight. . . . Still with his hands to his temples, Shawn risked a quick glance at Lassiter, to see the Head Detective's reaction to the words. Lassiter looked, if it were possible, even paler than before, stiffer, his lips pulled tight, his eyes closed. Shawn had only been here, in the presence of the killer, for less than five minutes, and he was scared shitless; inwardly, he congratulated Lassie for holding on this long— with what Shawn guesstimated to be three or four hours alone with this psycho. These broadcasts were obviously coming from hell.

He wondered suddenly why Lassiter was still alive. Taking a few shallow breaths, Shawn decided to run with it, abandoning his original non-theory of the hat pins' significance. "I'm sensing— that the detective is important to you— that you have— plans for him."

Shawn didn't miss either man's reaction to his words— the low sound of barely disguised fear from Lassiter or the low chuckle of appreciation from the killer. He ignored both, forging on, but inched his way closer to Lassiter, determined that if he could hold his ground with proximity to the killer's intended victim, then he could hold his ground in a fight. Shawn shuddered inwardly, hoping it wouldn't come to that. If that scenario were to come true, he could more than easily see himself screaming and dashing off without thinking about what was behind him; how many times had he done something similar to Gus, or even, that Gus had done that to him?

Shawn gulped. This was much different though, wasn't it? Gus wasn't here and the other person in this current scenario wasn't frightened of a little blood and a jittery suspect holding a gun.

"I got plans," Saul admitted, but his face was tight as he lifted the blade of his Bowie to the light.

Lassiter shivered involuntarily, though he wondered if the movement was subtle, because Spencer didn't turn his head. His mouth had gone dry again; he knew he had to let as little show on his face as possible, but both Shawn and the killer had already seen right through his efforts. A knot of horror tightened under Lassiter's navel, traveling up slowly and painfully until it rested beneath his Adam's apple— Shawn's presence here was making the situation 100 times worse. Lassiter found his lips wouldn't work themselves into the ironic smile he could feel inside his mouth: because, in spite of all of his own fear, he couldn't net his terror out to ensnare Spencer— and that hit him with a burst of shock. He laid there, feeling any remaining energy of fight seep out of him and into the floor.

"Hell, I do," Saul continued, taking another two measured steps towards them. "But I ain't owe you no explanation. You're not anything here but a god-damn interloper— low to the ground like a roadrunner." He raised an eyebrow slowly. "Granddad taught me well how to use your type for target practice— better than shooting at tin cans."

Lassiter felt sweat bead across his forehead; Spencer was eerily silent, seeming to not be able to find words to talk back to Saul. . . . And Spencer could _never_ shut up. Lassiter shocked himself by wishing Spencer would say something, anything— _anything_— childish or mundane, just to prove he hadn't passed out and could possibly handle the least task of running off given even the slimmest of chances. When Spencer finally spoke, his tone was of a seriousness that Lassiter had rarely heard.

"You're the one that killed her, then," Shawn said, still looking at the killer studying him with creepy disinterest. "She— her corpse— came to me in a vision." Closing his eyes, Shawn unwillingly saw the young woman's body— and he recited aloud the details he recalled from the crime scene. Lassiter found himself stunned to hear it— and was uncertain as to how Shawn could have found out this information. Though, it was all too possible he was parroting the details of another victim's fate, changing some of the description for effect.

"She didn't have it," Saul broke in during one of Shawn's embellished stories about who the woman was before she was the serial killer's victim. "She didn't have what I wanted." A slow grin took Saul's lips, peeling them back to reveal straight, near-to-white square teeth.

_The better to eat you with,_ Shawn thought out of the blue with a shiver. He forced himself to continue to speak. "The soles of your boots are covered with sand from the beach where you left her— and your clothes are probably coated with evidence of that particular area of salt sea air."

Saul stepped towards Shawn, who flinched, but managed to hold his ground. This man had been in Lassiter's face for hours; but then again, Lassiter was much more courageous than he was ever going to be. "Do you know how to spell blood in numbers, lawman?" Saul asked, tilting his head and eyes away from Shawn and in Lassiter's direction. Out of the corner of his eye, Lassiter's injuries glared at Shawn. Shawn wondered, with dull horror, if the killer had kept track by counting aloud as he sliced into Lassiter. "If I gave you an opinion in this matter— which would be mighty generous, considering— you say this little roadrunner here should live?"

"Numbers . . . mean nothing," Lassiter shoved out, causing Shawn to jump. "What matters . . . is . . . you've got what you want."

Saul tilted his head back, pondering. He touched the tip of the Bowie to his lips to help him think. Shawn's head spun as he tried to piece together what Lassiter had just said; his chest constricted with new fear.

_"You've got what you want." _

_"The Dee-tech-tive stays with me." _

It hit him with a rush of anger, and Shawn found himself biting his tongue hard to keep from repeating sarcastically, "Unacceptable." He gained a second wind, and willed himself to see the person before him as just a man— not the soulless killer that he actually was. He forced himself to do this because he knew with clarity that there was still a chance he _could_ be the "hero"— that he _had_ to be. Lassiter, though it would take some kind of miracle to admit it, was depending on him— or should be— to save his life.

Shawn frowned, sickened by the thoughts of the killer's convictions that he was in charge— and that Lassiter had been brainwashed and so badly assaulted that he was willingly sacrificing himself. _Have to do something,_ he told himself, knowing he needed to do what he did best— use his words— his only weapons— against the killer— buy some time.

"Why— why him?" Shawn asked boldly, adding the spirits with whom he was communing couldn't answer this question for him.

Saul scowled, snapping his eyes back to Shawn. "I suggest you skidaddle," Saul said darkly, taking a possessive step towards Lassiter, gripping the handle of the knife tightly. The use of the word "skidaddle" made both Shawn and Lassiter flinch. Lassiter turned his head away, closed his eyes. Saul gave Shawn a wide berth, circling to the right side of Lassiter, standing just close enough to make good on his possessive stance. "No charge, no foul, one time only."

Shawn gulped, but held his ground. It worried him that Lassiter didn't look as frightened as he should, as if he'd accepted the horrible fate at the hands of this psycho. Then again, Shawn couldn't help but notice that it seemed a thin layer of Lassiter's spirit had broken; again, he took stock of the cuts across the detective's body, his arms and chest, on the hand he'd burned on the hot coffee earlier in the day, on his face. There were also red splotched bruises on Lassiter's face, as if he'd been slapped or punched repeatedly. He noticed other things too, several little bites across his neck, his damp clothing, the missing tie and the ripped up clothing.

When he took a step towards Saul, moving in the direction of Lassiter's feet, he heard Lassiter hiss sharply, and recognized a low curse. He stepped back, competing with his fears to hammer out a plan where he could distract the killer and somehow help Lassiter. He kept coming up short. "You'd just let me go?" Shawn asked finally, making his eyes roll dramatically.

"Just go," Lassiter hissed.

Saul flickered his eyes towards his captive, anger tightening his skin. Shawn's eyes widened as he saw Saul aim a kick at Lassiter's shin. He was in mid-gasp, fighting for a "No!" loud enough to startle the killer into pausing when the killer's steel toed boot connected. Lassiter's head jerked back, his shoulders hitching to his ears. His eyes squeezed shut and he bit his lip, but managed not to cry out.

Shawn stared at the detective in horror, little black dots of tension marching across his own shoulders and neck as it hit him that this was likely on the lighter side of pain which Lassiter must have been receiving for a while.

Saul chuckled, circling around Lassiter again, in the direction he'd come from, causing Shawn to back up. As if amused by some game, Saul pointed his knife at Shawn as he circled around again, pacing in front of both of them, a few long steps from Lassiter's feet, acting as if he were marking his territory— making a line that neither should cross. _So much for letting me go,_ Shawn thought. A trickle of adrenaline made him brave, and he stalked towards Saul, not too close, but closer to Lassiter.

"Spenc—"

"Shh." Shawn motioned for silence with a finger to his lips.

Lassiter's eyes watered. He wished Spencer would just make a dash for it, but he was starting to worry that Spencer might end up with a knife in his back the second he turned around. This made his insides twist up further— wasn't it bad enough _he'd_ ignored his instincts, training and every other alarm bell that told him not to come here alone? He deserved— deserved to be— but not Spencer. The kid might be a moron for coming here in an understudy role, acting as foolishly as he had, but he was still an innocent and shouldn't be killed over it.

Lassiter blubbered involuntarily, wondered if the sputtered sound was only in his head.

Shawn had glanced at the detective, raising an eyebrow at Lassiter's perplexing behavior. There _must_ be a way to talk them out of trouble; Shawn took another step towards Lassiter, trying to ignore the savage look in which the killer was studying him. He looked like a wild animal with its claws out, frozen and tensed, ready to spring. As if he were guarding a stash of gathered food— or newly killed prey. The killer stalked back the way he'd come, pausing at Lassiter's right shoulder.

Shawn returned to his previous tact, though he wasn't certain he really wanted to know why Lassiter had been "chosen" to undergo such painful— and eventually— life ending torture. "You have special plans for this detective?" he asked again, staring at the killer across from him, Lassiter's prone body the only barrier between them. "You're— not going to kill him, like the others?"

"Not like the others," Saul repeated slowly; Lassiter knew Saul was enjoying toying with Shawn— the "roadrunner". Lassiter wondered if Saul wanted an audience when he committed his "final" act, or if he wanted his "business" to stay private. As terrifying as it was to admit to himself, a smart part of Lassiter's subconscious wished for the former— because it would buy Spencer more time at not only life but for escape. "He's— not like the others," the killer repeated, as if to clarify.

Sweat beaded under Shawn's armpits. It was impossible to ignore the way the killer had gazed in Lassiter's direction, hungry, as if he hadn't eaten in days . . . and a fresh kill was just at his feet. For a few seconds, the smell of earth and blood were too strong, clashing in scents and colors around his head. Shawn's view of the room reeled. He held his breath and took air in through his mouth, sickened the he could still taste the war of pain and color on his tongue. _How . . . how had Lassiter managed to survive this . . . and still not be dead yet?_ Vaguely, Shawn could hear a barb from Gus, who was arguing with him over sentence structure and logistics— but it came with a sting: he might die here and never see Gus again.

Or if he didn't— then Lassiter might. "He's not," Shawn said quietly.

Saul licked his lips. "Not that you would understand, but his blood will bring me—" he stopped, his dark eyes flickering over Shawn. "Nah, you're none but a child and shouldn't be brought in on the games of ad-dults."

Shawn frowned and retorted, "You call what you do gamey— gaming? Murder is just another game?"

"Murder?" Saul chuckled. "For those bodies— just meat— a path to a promised land, that it was." He dropped his smile, his lips pulling tight. "Not a single of 'em knew how to suffer— and not a single of 'em had a single thing I wanted."

Lassiter felt his stomach tighten; Saul was being confessional with Spencer— a sure sign he was planning to kill Shawn. Yet, Lassiter took solace that Saul had not gotten close enough to Spencer to cut him; he shivered. He recalled what he'd seen earlier in Saul's eyes as the killer gagged him before vanishing into the shadows— _how easy it would be kill this intruder, new and dumb like fresh meat. . . . _So far, it seemed Saul was unaware that Spencer knew who Lassiter was; Lassiter chewed his thoughts to come up with a way to continue to dissuade Shawn from staying without tipping Saul off; the less the killer knew, the better.

"You don't think what you do is murder?" Shawn couldn't help but ask incredulously. Again, the woman's corpse from the beach flashed before his eyes. He turned his head sharply— and again smelled the blood in the air. A nightmare. Boldly, he took two measured steps towards the killer, who watched him with a mix of coy interest and mild disinterest. Lassiter squirmed.

"Fine," Shawn said, dropping it, but starting in immediately on something else. "Why don't we talk about your calling cards, then. The faintest traces of Old West cologne, those pathetic renderings of those suicide kings, or those hat pins?— which will it be?"

Saul's lips curled in a snarl. "Don't you say none bad about those cards— my granddad worked hard on 'em— he did." Saul flicked the tip of the knife in the air. "He was a cattle herder with long gone dreams of artistry." He sighed. "His hand wasn't as steady as it was in his youth. Those are what I carry of his— fittin' that they stay in death with those meat whose souls have passed."

Lassiter heard the red hot anger in Saul's breathing— he'd learned the hard way that the killer did not tolerate any mentions of his grandfather— ill spoken or not. He pressed his shoulder blades against the floor as he relived what had followed when he'd taunted that Saul's grandfather had abused him as a child. It was a common tactic he'd employed in interrogation— angering a suspect, defiling any legacy the suspect bore connection to, taunting until the suspect snapped— and confessed his sins. But Lassiter knew that he was not on his home turf, and that he was not in control of the situation. Still, he had gone for Saul's throat— and he would, given any chance at all, do it again. His fears tried to talk this irrationally down, claiming that being afraid was completely legitimate and forgivable in this situation— as well as in his severely injured condition. And he knew that his emotions would continue their war— but he resolved not to give in— not until Spencer was long out of sight and safe.

"Are you— listening to yourself?" Shawn blurted out. He actually stopped walking when he saw Lassiter jerk on the floor, caught a glare from the detective that he was more used to seeing.

"I ain't sure I like you," Saul's voice rumbled, fixing Shawn with a hard stare.

_Please don't like me, _Shawn prayed. Aloud he said, "I can see your grandfather's hand, _trying_ to draw a sketch for those cards."

The killer growled. Shawn's heart slammed in his chest as he raised his hands to his head for the "vision", only daring to close one eye. "But each time, there was a certain and pronounced slant to each heart— amateurish. Nothing that would ever catch the eye of any—" Saul growled again; underneath this noise, Shawn made out a low warning from Lassiter. He ignored it— but shuddered inwardly as he watched the killer approach him slowly and carefully— like a predator stalking its prey. The look in Saul's eyes was not hungry but dark— unreflective. Shawn experienced a "vision" of himself impaled and flayed, pinned to the floor with the 8 mm hunting knife sticking out of his heart.

"N-now, don't be hasty," Shawn said in a high pitched squeak. He allowed himself to back up steadily, even though it was taking him away from Lassiter. The killer followed, also stepping away from the fallen detective. "I-I-I'm just stating a fact, dude."

"A fact?" Saul repeated, pausing in his gait to cock his head like a dog. "I'll tell _you_ fact, charlatan." The killer jabbed the knife out into the air in the direction of Shawn's face. "You ain't nothing to me but too low to the ground. Your blood, from a drop to a pint, means nothing." The killer did a surprising thing then, pulling his knife away and sticking it into a well used casing on his belt. "You suppose it'd be easy for me to cut you straight through the throat, or open up a life ending flow with a simple jab to the femoral artery on your thigh?" It was framed as a question, but Shawn swallowed, knowing it was not. "But I don't need it— I got what I need, right here." He unnecessarily tossed a hand behind him, where Lassiter was still lying.

Shawn's throat dried again. "He's not," he repeated softly.

The killer didn't seem to take note that Shawn had spoken. "I don't need you sticking around." He flexed his hands, but Shawn saw that his right arm was stiff. "You ever choked any livestock into submission with your own bare hands?"

Shawn blanched; for a few seconds he had trouble gathering words, so he used the time to try to move back towards Lassiter as quickly as he could.

Not quite sure what possessed him to speak it, Shawn heard his own voice ask, delayed, "Dude, was that serious question?" just as he reached Lassiter's left side, thinking he'd given the killer a wide enough berth. He turned his back to the killer momentarily, barely registering the horror on Lassiter's face quickly changing to something else.

Shawn turned, shocked to see the killer in range to reach him. He gasped. Saul brought his hand up in a fit of fury to smack Shawn; Lassiter wasn't certain in the millisecond he processed what was about to happen if it was just meant as one slap or a beating by his open palm. If these were different circumstances, Lassiter may have gotten a perverse enjoyment out of seeing some criminal hit Spencer (okay, maybe just one time before he would have surely intervened), but Lassiter acted too quickly, telling himself during the action as well as after that he was only doing his duty to protect an unarmed civilian. He was up in a flash, right hand still pressed tightly to his side to contain his wound; he sidestepped, insinuating himself between Spencer and the criminal much in the same way Spencer had done earlier, separating Lassiter from Vick, and took the criminal's slap— Spencer's slap— to the back of his head.

Shawn gasped, his mouth and eyes widening at the same moment. "Lassie, why—?" he managed.

Lassiter shrugged, trying to ignore the force of the slap on his already battered head; Spencer was about to get it good. Lassiter could feel something wet on the back of his neck. "I— owed you," Lassiter muttered gruffly. "But keep yer mouf shutup aboutit." He narrowed his eyes for emphasis; ironically, it made him feel dizzy and the room they were in was tilting sharply to the left. _Crap_. He was going down, again.

* * *

Gus couldn't concentrate, and was unable to make it another solid ten minutes into the next half of the presentation before politely excusing himself. There could be plenty of time later to make some embarrassing excuses about Central Coast's latest venture into discount catering— hell, he could already hear Shawn shaping fifteen in rapid-fire succession— until Gus wouldn't be able to show his face around his colleagues without the disguise of a paper bag.

He'd known Shawn long enough to know well enough that there _had_ to be something more to that text message— and that it had to somehow related to his friend's odd behavior since the crime scene visit. Gus frowned. He wished he'd been able to yank even one-tenth of a version of the truth from Shawn before he'd left the Psych office. Shawn must have done something bad— an act Shawn would likely find a way to wholly justify with his unique sense of reasoning. But what truly gnawed at Gus was that Shawn had implied he was "going somewhere" to "fix something"— and had left the notions vague. _Bad things, it could only mean bad things._

Gus was halfway to the Santa Barbara Police Station before even realizing he'd gotten in the car. His brain had apparently decided to forego a trip to the Psych office— he wasn't going to find Shawn there. He recalled Juliet's apparent disconnection of his call, wondering suddenly if she hadn't had time to take it seriously. For a moment, he considered who she had been hoping he was instead of himself— and surprisingly, it wasn't Shawn.

_"I'm sorry, Gus. I thought you might be Lassiter."_

Gus furrowed his brow, but dropped the train of thought as Shawn's probable plans of destruction returned to the forefront. He felt a lump of dread in his throat, and wondered, as he pulled his Echo into parking lot, just what he could say to convince Chief Vick or least Juliet that Shawn was probably in trouble.

"Sometimes," Gus said aloud, "Shawn's psychic abilities transfer to me." He was trying the phrase to see if sounded as stupid aloud as it did in his head. He blew out a breath. Only Shawn could get away with that kind of lunacy— or Shawn had to at least be present so that Gus could.

At least he wouldn't have to fake his concern.

* * *

Vick released her breath, dismissing the odd bout of worry that had made threats to overwhelm her as ridiculous. Lassiter was fine, wherever he was. And he was slated for a serious reprimand if he didn't get his ass back here Asap.

Still, the matter of Lassiter's several unanswered calls filled her with unease. Their early conversation tugged at her. And before her was Lassiter's partner, her face blanched with obvious worry. This was new; O'Hara had never shown this level of emotion for her partner's well-being before— at least, Vick amended, not when it came to the matters of their jobs. They were both types who were highly trained and highly capable of taking care of themselves— and each other in the line of duty. And because of this, a mutual knowing and respect had risen between the partners, and Karen had witnessed it all from her own corner of the precinct.

She had also witnessed Juliet O'Hara's many early attempts to draw her stubborn, antisocial partner out of the cold, hard shell he'd wedged himself in, with every attempt short of grabbing him by the hair or the tie and forcibly dragging him out. That first year, it had actually been painful for Karen to watch— and difficult for her to grasp why Detective O'Hara would not give up and admit Lassiter was just a hard-ass— like everyone else in the department already had. (For some, numerous times.) She'd tackled even the most sensitive topics with care and glee, from planning a surprise party for his birthday to breaking the news gently that his love life was in need of a serious 911. At every opportunity, even when it backfired on her, she continued to rise to the challenge— and, to Karen's great disbelief, Juliet O'Hara's efforts were well spent.

Carlton had, Vick knew, come to rely on his sunny-faced and more-than-capable partner more than he would ever admit— and for more ways than just having his back and guarding his life in their daily life and death situations. He _trusted_ her; knowing this small bit of information _still_ bowled Vick over each time she thought on it. And because of this trust, Vick had observed Lassiter protect his partner— both in and out of the line of duty. More than once, he'd stepped in, just in time, to spare Juliet tongue lashings from authority figures such as herself, Vick recalled. He spoke to his partner conversationally, and had gradually become more friendly and even easy-going— though he still retained several aspects of his usual personality. Vick sighed. She couldn't imagine _that_ going away any time soon.

So, if _he_ trusted Juliet O'Hara's judgment, then shouldn't she also? If Juliet had reasonable doubt. . . .

"Detective," Vick began, the words she wanted to say not even fully formed before a loud, urgent set of footsteps interrupted her train of thought, followed by a familiar voice asking where Juliet and herself could be found.

"Gus?" Juliet asked, turning around. The question of his presence lined her forehead as she worked out the confusion; had he come down in person because of their recent phone conversation? A conversation about Shawn. Juliet frowned, annoyed that Shawn was causing a distraction when he wasn't even present— he was pulling the focus of her worry away from her partner's whereabouts. She had just waited expectantly for the Chief to come to the conclusion that something wasn't right about Lassiter's absence, and had tasted the anticipation of Vick's ghost words.

Gus didn't catch the light anger around Juliet's eyes as he strode up to them. His brow furrowed, as if he recalled something. "Where's Lassiter?" Gus asked after greeting them.

Vick frowned, considering answering that that information was classified, but instead, she felt her mouth go dry. She glanced at Juliet. "We don't know," she said, furrowing her brow.

"Oh," Gus said, the furrowing of his brow continuing. He looked at Juliet, surprised that her usual professional guise was a paler version of herself. He decided to dive right in. "I don't know where Shawn is either—"

"Mr. Guster," Karen cut in, groaning to herself that Burton Guster had come down to the station to bother her because his flighty friend— and her eccentric psychic consultant— had taken off without telling Guster first. "This hardly seems like a matter for the police," she chided.

Gus took it, shaking his head and pursing his lips. "You don't understand. He left me this weird message—"

Juliet bit her lip as she watched Gus retrieve his cell phone from his jacket pocket. She wanted to demand just who he thought he was today, cutting into possibly valuable time of figuring out whether or not Lassiter was actually missing— but she diplomatically let him speak.

Vick grabbed the phone, reading the text aloud. She rolled her eyes. "Mr. Guster, what is this supposed to prove?"

Gus threw up his hands in frustration. "I don't know, but I just . . ." He fought for words, knowing he couldn't say he "had a feeling" if he expected actual help. "Shawn was— really disturbed by that dead body on the beach today," he blurted out.

Vick and Juliet exchanged a quick glance. "What does that—"

"He's not usually," Gus continued. He explained briefly how he'd tried to get Shawn to talk about it— and felt his friend had been holding something crucial back. A horrible thought stabbed at his gut. "What if Shawn . . . got a vision of another murder while I was away?" Gus said in a whisper. He looked up slowly. "What if he . . . went off and tried to stop it?"

That did stop Juliet's thoughts about her possibly missing partner for a moment. But Vick, a voice of reason, cut in. "There's nothing about that in this message. The most we have to go on here, _not_ that we will be going on anything," she clarified, "is that Shawn says he has to 'fix something'— 'something stupid'." She raised her eyebrows to Gus in a commanding manner. "Do you know what Mr. Spencer has to 'fix'?"

Gus swallowed, and shook his head. He wished Shawn had told him— anything, something, but Shawn had remained eerily silent while not teasing Gus to deflect him from talking about whatever it was he didn't want to talk about.

* * *

Carlton groaned, turning his head slightly to the left, and letting his eyes ease open. He was lying on his back on the hard floor of the room, stretched out. He shifted the smallest amount and pain stabbed at his side, up his chest, his wounds on fire. He felt a hand pressing him against the floor.

"Stay still," the voice instructed him.

He didn't listen, or tried to but failed, until a piercing cry escaped his lips.

"I told you," the voice said quietly.

"Was-its?" Lassiter clamped his mouth shut as he realized he had just slurred his speech. Against his better judgment, he opened his eyes, and found Spencer sitting Indian-style on the floor next to him.

"Lassie, how long ago were you stabbed?" Spencer asked him quietly.

Lassiter peered at him vacantly, trying to determine why Spencer's blue flannel shirt was missing. Spencer had been wearing it when he'd nearly been slapped— he looked cold in just the red spotted t-shirt. Slowly, Carlton found an awareness that some cloth had been bundled tightly about his wound; why the hell was Spencer always helping him? He felt the dormant shards of anger cutting into him. First, this morning, with those IA officers, now—

"—old ewe, Spwenstars—" This was no good; he hadn't been this tongue numbed before, had he? Cold sweat dripped off of his temples and he worked to suppress a shiver.

Spencer was squinting over him, trying to make out the words. "Lass—" Shawn shook his head, then forced out his first name. Lassiter blinked confusedly.

"—ewww help meh?" Lassiter barely managed, his eyes dipping closed.

"Dude, that's why I'm here," Spencer continued quietly, risking a glance towards their armed captor, who was pacing slowly— seemingly waiting something out. He turned his head back slowly, trying to ignore the small but growing pool of blood at Lassiter's right side. The older man's face and hair were drenched with sweat; the rest of his skin had a sickeningly clammy shine to it. Lassiter may have been fooling himself that he was fine before, but the smack had taken too much out of him.

_Idiot_, Shawn had thought, horrified instantly when he saw, straight in the path of the light, the open wound at Lassiter's side which had created a soggy bloom of red on his torn white shirt. His words were barely out of his mouth before he toppled forward, his limbs limp. Shawn had gasped again, unthinkingly catching the dead weight of Lassiter's unconscious frame. He had been appalled at the blood splattering onto his shirt as he struggled to get Lassiter to the floor without dropping him or further aggravating his wound.

"Oh, my god," Shawn had muttered, finally easing Lassiter to the floor. Now that Lassiter was out cold, he was no longer putting pressure on the bleeding. In the most non-threatening manner, Shawn had eased off his shirt, balled it up and pressed the fabric tightly to the wound. He tried to figure out a plausible reason why Lassiter had suddenly fainted, and with growing dread, slid his fingers into the hair at the back of Lassiter's head. His fingers came back wet, and red. Shawn forced himself to continue his blind search for a head wound. He gasped to himself when his fingers seemed to find more than one.

"What are you doing?" Saul had snapped, gesturing with an angry pointer finger.

"How hard did you hit him?" Shawn shot back.

The man's lips upturned. "It was meant for you— so, with all the force in my arms."

"Bastard," Shawn muttered under his breath. He turned away from the man, realizing he hadn't checked Lassiter's breathing or pulse. As he did that, he felt the killer watching him; it wasn't a comfortable feeling to have this killer's eyes on him. Lassiter wasn't out too long, but Shawn was alarmed, when Lassiter woke, by the slurring in the detective's words. He had a difficult time discerning Lassiter's level of awareness; his eyes were glassy, as if he were still sleeping.

Though, he found himself relieved by Lassiter's almost belligerent tone, even while the words were unclear.

"I'ma gonna make good on what I said, charlatan," the killer said. "The lawman's mine."

"Yours?" Shawn repeated. He thought, strangely, of Juliet and what she might say if she were here instead of him. He could picture her bravely stating that Lassiter didn't belong to anyone— unless it was to her. They had that way of acting like that around each other, though it wasn't be any means in a romantic way. No, both of them would laugh or make faces of "What, are you insane now?" if that was ever suggested. Shawn remembered how upset Lassiter had been when, after he'd been put on suspension following a murder accusation, Juliet had been assigned Drimmer as her new partner. Juliet, for her part, continued to refer to Drimmer as temporary and wouldn't even consider anyone as a replacement for Lassiter. Yes, this killer's words would make her furious, Shawn guessed.

"Callo'hara," Lassiter slurred.

It took Shawn a few seconds to sort out what he'd just instructed. He looked back sheepishly. "I can't. My battery's dead. Where's your phone, Carl—ton?" Shawn spoke deliberately slowly, though the detective's first name sounded funny coming from his mouth. Shawn had said it because Lassiter didn't seem to be responding to Shawn's nickname, which worried him. Both he and Juliet often seemed to take Shawn's nicknames for them with a grain of salt, offering annoyed looks (mostly Lassiter), but hardly ever correcting him. (It seemed, to them, a waste of breath.)

Lassiter's breathing was shallow. Shawn had torn some clean material from Lassiter's bloody jacket and had pressed the wadded up cloth to the back of Lassiter's head. With Lassiter on his back, and new bruising on his neck, Shawn had been leery about turning the detective's head too far in either direction, let alone lifting it to find the source of the blood. Instead, he'd resorted to putting pressure on the wound, hoping it would stop on its own.

"I— don'ttah know," Lassiter got out finally, trying very hard to steady and enunciate his words. A tiny jolt of panic had worked over his insides, and his mind was running rampant with bad thoughts. He couldn't just be lying on the floor like this, despite being hurt, possibly badly hurt; he had to get control back because now, it wasn't only his life on the line. He had already stood up for Spencer once— but the killer still— (he winced, slowly realizing his bad pun before he thought it) held all the cards. He guffawed once, causing Spencer to jump with alarm. The first thing he could get control of was his speech— he'd have to work on the rest at his own pacing. "I— lost-it." _Dammit, so close._

"Lost it?" Shawn repeated, his brow furrowed with confusion. He was kind of counting on Lassiter to be the responsible one.

"Beena rough day," Lassiter mumbled. He tried to consider where his cell phone might be, though the location wasn't likely to help them even if he figured it out. _Was it outside, during the storm, that he'd been trying to get a signal? That's right— he had been calling O'Hara— or at least, he'd had the intention to. _"When I fell— um— hurt— my ankle," he explained.

"When you fell?" Shawn repeated, putting more pressure on the wound at the back of Lassiter's head. He looked towards Lassiter's feet to see if he was making sense about his ankle— Shawn remembered the mention from earlier but thought it was a lie. He eased his hand away from the wound at the back of Lassiter's head and risked a tug on Lassiter's pant leg, pulling the fabric up enough to get a better look at the injury. Lassiter's sock was torn; Shawn could see that his ankle was purple and swollen twice its size. Shawn sat back, feeling sicker than he already was.

"Mm-huh," Lassiter said, blinking until his eyes closed. "E pushed me. Mmm. Then, on the stairs— hit me—" The memory of falling down the metal staircase came back with a vengeance; he was there, falling again, recognizing the blood— of an innocent woman, he now knew— of someone hoping for escape. Hadn't he already been in that position, hoping for escape? He'd tried too.

Lassiter lost consciousness while Shawn and the killer exchanged words. Shawn monitored his breathing while keeping one eye peeled on the killer, who had not made any further attempts to attack Shawn since Lassiter had intervened. It seemed that, if Shawn was to be hurt, then Lassiter was required to be awake for it— as a helpless witness.

"He fights against me constantly," Saul muttered with admiration. "Such fire— his blood must burn— like a stiff shot of whiskey— but, by hell, it'll last forever."

The killer wasn't addressing Shawn, but he wasn't taking to someone who wasn't there either— but it still wasn't the least comforting to Shawn. The killer was shaking his fist in the air, a gesture of victory has if he'd already completed the necessary tasks. "Granddad, finally, a worthy bit of meat—"

Shawn swallowed, pulling his gaze away from the killer and letting it rest on Lassiter. His stomach was full of butterflies eating him from the inside; he was bothered though that he was experiencing what could only be a protective urgency towards the detective; it wasn't common and Shawn wasn't sure how to deal with it. Usually, he was the one cowering in front of a suspect with a weapon, waiting for Lassie and Jules to come to his rescue. (Though he would never admit "cowering." He'd use the words "stalling" or "bluffing" or even "monstrous fibbing" way before that.) And, it was one thing to imagine the glory (and the teasing), but to actually have to do the hard work, to get blood on his hands—

"Lassie, please wake up," Shawn pleaded softly, abandoning the notion that he was going to let Lassiter sleep for a little while. He was too scared to be left all alone with this killer.

* * *

When he woke again, he found that his tongue was back to normal after the momentary lapse. His thoughts were clear, and he was fully aware of what had happened— and that he needed to continue to work on Spencer to get him to get out of here.

Still, his head ached, and his side blazed though he recognized that there was pressure on the wound. He tried to think through the ways Saul had gotten to him, twisting up his state of mind until he was more paranoid than certain. Was it through the way the killer had introduced himself casually, then outlined his gruesome plans for Lassiter's fate, hardly sparing details? To himself, Lassiter shook his head. He'd been threatened before— numerous times, even though this current situation was incomparable to anything else. Could it be that the killer had tried to make him identify, insisting the two were more alike than Lassiter wanted to admit?

Lassiter shifted; _this_ had grated on him, but it still wasn't the reason he'd let his guard down. He knew he was scared and that he didn't want to die— but knew that these were normal human reactions— for both police officers and civilians. _Can't fault myself for being human,_ he thought miserably. But he could fault himself for being stupid, for acting like a cocky rookie who had something to prove. He could fault himself for not telling his partner directly where he was going and what he was planning. The Chief knew, in part, but even she did not know everything. He kicked himself repeatedly.

_"Ain't no one coming for you. You ain't got no one." _Lassiter froze as the memory of the killer's voice edged into him. This . . . this was how Saul had done it, worming his words into Lassiter's head through the weak spot: his awkwardness for social contact and interaction outside of a workplace setting, as well as his paranoid fears that he was still more like Goochberg than he had previously thought— and that he was undeserving of a rescue from the one person he trusted with everything. And he'd "allowed" the killer to bait him this way, unable to steel himself appropriately or "fight back" without giving Saul more firepower to use against him.

The repeat of these thoughts chilled him, leaving his body numb. Carlton opened his eyes, hoping to dispel the numbness by getting another good look at the nightmare so he could focus on the safety of Spencer, who was still sitting nearby, his expression pale.

If O'Hara were here, he could ask her to confirm or deny his worries and fears— she would tell him, straight up— but did he want to know? Could he tell if she were lying, if what she would say was a roundabout version, said in the way she sometimes had to prevent him further hurt? He was a good detective, but— sometimes she was better. O'Hara. Thinking of her absence caused the deeper wounds on his chest and arms to cry out— if she had been here, he might have been spared these pains, these thoughts. Much earlier in the day, he may have been ashamed to admit that he really believed in O'Hara that much, but Lassiter tried to swallow it now, uncaring if it stuck in his throat. He hoped that she _was_ better— but as Saul's face leered over his thoughts, he understood that he was kidding himself:

_O'Hara is not here. O'Hara is not coming. O'Hara doesn't even know you're gone, and what's more— she wouldn't even care. Or she's _happy_ if she knows. _The thoughts stung like a sharp pinch; they were loud enough in his head to almost make him believe that they had dripped from Spencer's lips, poison into his ears.

Poison. That's what Saul had "offered", when he wasn't cutting, kicking or beating Lassiter. Stabbing him.

"Who wouldn't be happy to know I was dead?" Lassiter muttered, not realizing he'd spoken it aloud, until Spencer snapped his head in Lassiter's direction.

"What the shiznits did you just say?" Spencer hissed, his eyes wild. He was been relieved to see Lassiter awaken, and to hear his words were well pronounced, but chilled to hear the defeatist whine to Lassiter's words. He sighed. "Man up, okay? The spirits and I are conjuring up a plan— a really good one."

Lassiter bit his lip; he felt stupid for saying things aloud, but now that it was suspended in the air, he thought it would be worse to leave it there all alone. "You would like to dance on my grave, wouldn't you?"

Spencer frowned. "Where is this coming from?"

"Admit it," Lassiter accused.

"Shut your mouth, right now," Shawn edged. "This isn't you— you don't give up, Lassie."

Lassiter was struggling to put the air behind the words, "Even O'Hara," but they wouldn't form. Instead, a wash of involuntarily saline spilled from his eyes. He turned his head carefully away from Spencer, hoping his emotions would remain hidden.

Shawn could see what was going on out of the corner of his eye. It was unnerving, and he had to work very hard not to question the detective about it right now, while they were both still in the presence of the killer. For all his black humor and sarcasm, Lassiter still wasn't the morbid type. _What the hell had the killer done— besides what he could see— or said to Lassiter that could have triggered—?_

Shawn experienced another wave of woe as he watched Lassiter fall apart. His usual Id tried to cut in to spare him blame and self-inflicted pain, but Shawn couldn't dismiss what he assumed was fact that what he was seeing before him was mostly his fault. Lassiter seemed a shell— the murderer just _that_ savage, demented. Shawn forced himself to ask, pretending he wasn't seeing Lassiter on the verge. "What the hell happened here?"

"Just get out," Lassiter snapped, his voice thick. "What can't you ever just leave? Why do you always have to be such a horrible pest? You're not needed, or wanted here."

Shawn sat back, studying the detective. He was breathing hard— the exertion of forced anger had taken much from him. Lassiter's words didn't even sting, mostly because they were lies. Well, maybe not the "horrible pest" part— Shawn was more than willing to give Lassiter that one, free of charge.

_Man up, Shawn. Lassie needs help, even if he'll never admit it._

Though, Shawn reflected, Lassiter had, in a way, asked for help. He'd tried to dissuade Shawn by telling him he needed another cop here— and then he'd gone as far to say her name._ O'Hara._

His personality had an instinct to immediately tease Lassiter with this information . . . then he realized he could use it as a "psychic" advantage— not that Lassiter believed he was psychic. Shawn had to admit, to himself, that if he were in Lassiter's place, he could easily wish Jules knew where he was— and that she would know exactly what to do to fight and then bring him home. Shawn couldn't blame Lassiter, and he swallowed his useless teasing with shame.

Again, he wondered what the killer was going to do with them— and wondered again just what Juliet would make of the killer's words about her partner. Shawn could "sense" an image of her proposed fury, burning a line of determination from the SBPD to this very spot— if only she knew.


	10. Chapter 9: Taking What You Believe In

Disclaimer: I don't own _Pinky and the Brain_. Minor references to Season Two's "65 Million Years Off" and Season Three's "An Evening With Mr. Yang".

Author's Note: Worlds of thanks to the remaining supporters/ reviewers of this story. Thank you for giving me that much desired boost and *squee* to dive into writing the next chapter. You all rock. :) I wish I could more consistent with updates, but a new busy schedule has been challenging me. Reviews, feedback, and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated. Thanks and happy reading!

* * *

**Chapter Nine: You Think About That, What You Believe In;** **I'm Taking It, What You Believe In**

* * *

* * *

Chief Vick's face hardened to Gus's stalling. She crossed her arms, pulling her whole body into a stiff, straight line. This posturing usually had no effect on Shawn Spencer, but Gus's reactions were far different. He reacted with a humble shame—he knew he was wasting valuable police time with his vague ramblings, knew that there were other people out there that really needed help from the cops, yet he kept returning to the thoughts that his friend was in some kind of trouble. He backed up a few steps, as if the past held some comfort he could get back into, an ease that would allow him to confess his fears convincingly enough to get action. Gus also reacted with an emotional war; he abandoned the ploy, stepping back up, fumbling with his arms. His expression stayed frozen between shame and struggle.

"Haven't you ever just _known_?" Gus said softly, staring into Vick's eyes.

In the hiccup of Vick's unavoidable SBPD explanation between the flailings of gut intuition and their daily practice of investigated fact, Juliet made a sound in her throat that almost contradicted the code that she and Vick had sworn to follow.

* * *

The man still hadn't attempted to hurt or even come near Shawn since he'd parked himself at Lassiter's side. But every now and then, the killer would stop pacing to stare at his victim, each time working his two of his fingers down the middle flat part of the blade, almost as if he were caressing fabric. It was among the many unnerving quirks Shawn picked up on in the killer's behavior—but each action or small tic brought him no closer to solving the riddle of this man—or why he had latched on to the SBPD's Head Detective with such exacting rage filled admiration—Shawn tried his best to ignore the latest crop of goose bumps on his arms.

The killer seemed to forcefully ignore Shawn's identity—and existence—denying, Shawn felt, that he was anything to Lassiter besides a stranger. Shawn picked this up in the subtleties of the man's behavior—in scowls that masked angry thought, flicks of looks out of the corner of his eye in Shawn's direction. Was his presence, Shawn wondered, causing some scheme of the killer's to unravel? It was hard to tell for sure; it could be as simple as that the man despised being interrupted while he was playing with his food.

Shawn's mouth dipped; it disgusted him that he allowed himself to go there, but he couldn't help but remember the blood on the man's chin. Out of decency, he shivered, and tried again to formulate a plan.

Talking to the killer was almost out of the question; the first attempts had almost deflated Shawn's self-confidence as he fumbled through the lies of making his "visions" tell the truth—not to mention that nasty slap the killer thought he deserved. Four or five times now, Shawn had almost formed the words to start another "vision"—but then he'd come up short, the memories of the first conversation and Lassiter's latest injury still too fresh. Besides, the man's responses were nearly all nonsense, at least to Shawn. So instead, Shawn talked to Lassiter while the detective continued down the path of emotional self-destruction, until Shawn finally got wise to what the detective was playing at—though not all of it, Shawn figured, was for show. In a knee-jerk reaction to the discovery, Shawn absentmindedly smacked Lassiter's shoulder.

Lassiter's face pinched with anger, snapping his head towards the fake psychic with a snarl to his teeth. "What the—"

"I know what you're trying to do," Shawn blurted out, raising the hand he'd just hit Lassiter with to his temple. "You're trying to play dead so that I won't—" When Shawn saw that Lassiter had paused mid-growl with a look of blue emptiness passing through his eyes, Shawn had the decency enough to redden, and cough, "Uh, bad choice of words, buddy?"

Lassiter shook his head, an angry smile dissolving. "True enough."_ And wasn't it going to happen anyway? Dead?_ "Ouch!" Lassiter gasped, raising his eyebrows once before arching them darkly towards Shawn, who had just _flicked_ one of the cuts on his hand. "Do you have a death wish?" he spat out without thinking, then nearly choked on his own phrasing. Shawn was staring back with hard eyes, an action that would have nearly made Lassiter wince if he'd been caught more off guard. But an angry Spencer he could handle right now.

"You are not dead, you jerk," Shawn ground out. "You're lucky I'm here instead of Jules—though I think I might pay thousands of dollars to see her slap you for saying it."

Lassiter experienced a flood of longing, a prickly, nameless wish that flowed under his skin and left him gasping, that she really was here to slap him and bring him back to reality. He could imagine her doing it, too, impulsively and without remorse—for a few seconds afterward, anyway. His face took on a sneer, covering his inner flailing with a quip, "By you paying, you mean Guster."

Shawn pursed his lips. "I bet Gus would like to see it too. Or with a bribery of fine desserts, he could be persuaded." His eyes narrowed. "You're not getting out of that one so easily, Lassafras."

"'Course I'm not," Lassiter mumbled over the ridiculous nickname.

"But seriously, dude? Self-sacrifice? For me? How hard did he hit your head?"

"Which time?" he mumbled.

"What?" Shawn ground out, incredulous.

Lassiter studied the ceiling, ignoring Spencer's question. "It's in my job description to protect civilians. I took an oath to serve and protect. Even the likes of you."

"Uh, huh," Shawn mumbled, unconvinced. "You're injured; you're just not thinking clearly. So I'll have to be your brain. _The Brain, Brain, Brain, Brain_." Shawn cut himself off mid-cartoonish chuckle to give Lassiter a sideways look. "Guess that makes you Pinky. Though you're really not pink, not usually. More pale. Paley." Shawn shook his head. "Doesn't have the same ring, does it?"

Lassiter's mouth arched downwards, forming a look up to his eyebrows that said he'd like to wring Shawn's neck. He didn't want to exert strength contradicting Spencer, or tell him to shut the hell up. _Huh. Maybe on a better day. _

Shawn didn't like that, seeing an angry look slip away into a fit of pain. It gave him chills, realizing again that he really was Lassiter's only hope. It just figured, didn't it, that, like all other days, he _had_ to be irresponsible with his phone? He knew what Gus or his father would have to say about that—Shawn feigned a deep breath. His father would bitch that Shawn could have prevented this whole thing by not being such a jackass and playing around with people's lives in the first place.

"Lassie, did you try to call for back up?" Shawn asked, his eyes suddenly unable to stray from the burn on the detective's hand, which now had multiple thin vertical cuts across its surface, each having had lines of blood drawn.

Chagrined, Lassiter tried to think of how to appropriately answer. The journey into this place seemed like days, or years, ago, rather than hours. Bits still pinched with a clarity he wished he could forget—especially the long glance from the interior of his Crown Vic. He had tried, hadn't he? Right before he'd been pushed, he'd been on the phone to O'Hara. Eventually he nodded, walking Shawn through the incident that got him inside, broke his phone and twisted his ankle. He left things out; Spencer didn't need to know everything.

"Tried to fight," Lassiter said, looking away. "He might be stronger."

Though Shawn didn't know if this were really true, he put himself in charge, momentarily, of trying to cheer Lassiter up. "Come on, Lassiesaur, stronger than you? If he had some advantage, it was probably that he just wasn't hurt."

"Think I shot him. His right arm." Lassiter fixed his eyes on Shawn's. "Go for his arm, Spencer. Then run like hell."

_Holy shit, back to this again?_ "Why do you _really_ want me to run away?"

"Need . . ." Her face, in his mind, was tight with seriousness; he could see lack of sleep during long stakeouts hollowing out her eyes. Surely . . . she couldn't be worrying _that_ much now? "Shh—" _She'll know what to do._ Pain coursed through him. "Freal help."

"'Freal' help?" Shawn repeated, confused. "What is that?"

Lassiter's vision blurred for a second. He forced his words to separate. "For. Real." He panted. "Her. Get her."

Shawn raised an eyebrow. "Who? The Chief? Officer Sanchez? Ooh, Claire Danes? Jennifer Grey?"

_"__O'Hara_, you ass," Lassiter hissed with his eyes closed. Sleep was pulling at him; he wanted to go with it.

Shawn caught the detective's eyes slant. He seized Lassiter's shoulder again, shaking firmly until he was met with a watery version of Lassiter's usual glare. Breathing a sigh of relief, Shawn nodded. He'd take that. "Okay, so you want Jules. Jules, right?"

Lassiter sputtered, his mouth trying to shape his partner's last name, until he gave up with a nod.

"You can't go to sleep again. What if you're concussed?"

Lassiter's eyes performed a trick, stealing the usual derision from his tone when he usually addressed Shawn. It was less than he wanted; he wanted to yell at Spencer in small words that the kid might actually be able to understand, that Carlton actually and desperately needed Spencer to leave. His eyes slid in the direction of his many cuts and wounds, trying for that speechless illustration; he was so tired now. Lassiter knew he shouldn't be this tired still in the presence of Saul, who would certainly not be above kicking him in the head or the side to "wake him". And, as horrifying as it was being here, all alone with Saul, what scared Lassiter even more was that Spencer was going to talk himself into an equally nasty stab wound or worse. _I can't protect him. I tried. I tried, and look what happened._

Shawn held his hand up in a halfhearted attempt that would use it to smack Lassiter if the detective tried to close his eyes again. Everywhere his eyes went, Shawn zoomed in on another new wound, cut, or bruise, or blotched spot; it seemed the Head Detective had taken much more abuse than anyone should have to handle. Shawn lowered his hand, curling his fingers into a loose fist as he watched Lassiter dully watch his movements. "It's your lucky day," Shawn said nonsensically, "where you could have almost arrested me for assault."

"Lucky?" he repeated. For a moment, Lassiter looked like he wanted to laugh, but his expression fell fast. He tried to turn his head. "Please," he hissed, more whisper than word. _Do something right. _Carlton fought hard to get sound into O'Hara's name, insistent that Spencer was going to pay attention.

A few minutes passed quietly. Lassiter abandoned his pleas for Shawn to actually follow his orders momentarily, asking instead, "Spencer, what's he doing?"

"Pacing," Shawn whispered without looking up. The killer had taken to pacing the line of shadows just out of Lassiter's line of sight.

"Did he try to—"

"What?" Shawn whispered.

"Attack you? While I was out cold?"

"No."

"Don't you _dare_ let him get that close to you again," Lassiter hissed, fixing his hard blue eyes on Shawn's face.

In spite of the situation, Shawn cracked a smile. "Lassie, you care." Shawn, who had again removed his hand from the ruined fabric resting at the back of Lassiter's head, patted his heart until he saw the detective flinch. He heard the killer say, _"Your heart's no good to me," _and again wondered what this strange statement meant.

"I'm serious," Lassiter continued. He winced, then back pedaled to regain some shades of his usual anger.

"He's highly muscled and scary," Shawn dismissed. "I get it."

"No," Lassiter snapped, "you don't."

"Then explain to me why—"

"I ain't liking this charlatan, lawman," Saul said conversationally from his line of shadow. He arced his eyes over Lassiter's prone form, studying him. "He stinks of fear, but he ain't worth a thing—dead or alive."

Shawn frowned. "Way to make judgments on people you don't even know," he blurted out ridiculously. "I'm a world renowned—"

"Shut up," Lassiter growled dangerously, flicking his leg towards Shawn in a useless effort to get him to stop.

"I can be modest," Shawn continued, nodding in the direction of the killer, who was looking through him. "I'm actually best known in California, Hawaii, Guam, and Puerto Rico, and sometimes in that Belgium slice of France—Brazil."

It was the killer's turn to growl. "He made the worst mistake of his life," Saul continued, "coming here. Walking in as fool, thinking he can talk his ghosts into saving his petty life." Again, Shawn witnessed the killer addressing a phantom cause; his eyes had turned away from both of them to face forward with purpose.

Breath escaped from Shawn's lips; Lassiter risked a longer glance, and was relieved to finally see unguarded fear on Spencer's face. Shawn laughed nervously. "You think—you think your ghosts are . . . your ghosts . . ." He tried to finish the thought but the end wasn't there; instead, a trail of thought led him back to the comment about his heart. And Lassiter's increased discomfort over any gesture regarding the heart. Shawn saw the murdered victims, knowing that in each the cause of death had been a stab wound to the heart. Could this be "all"? Lassiter figured that he was going to become the man's latest kill?

"Lassie, he's not going to kill you," Shawn said thinly, so only Lassiter could hear. He said it with his rare "scared little boy" voice, the one usually only Gus and Henry knew about and heard on occasion. Weakly, he raised his free hand to his temple. "He's not going to stab you through the heart—"

Carlton raised an eyebrow, and in spite of himself, he replied to the voice with a thin mocking smile. "You don't know the half, Spencer," he said.

Saul grumbled; Lassiter suspected the killer was stockpiling a rage for Spencer's interruption to either use on the faker or on him—in the final straw, when the blade went deep with carnal care, severing arteries, veins, sinew, muscles until his blood ran freely. He was still dismayed at how difficult this was for him to deal with; it was inevitable, wasn't it?

"Spencer," Lassiter began, his breath coming out in little huffs. He must be 'delirious' to even ask such a question, but a small part of him thought he might not make it out of this, and he felt he needed to know.

Shawn leaned over him, his hazel eyes filled to their brim with a soppy worry. His lips moved, but Lassiter was instead focused on the cold sweat tickling the back of his neck to make the words out. He cut in, "What did you—tell." His voice dipped to a low whisper, but he forced himself to continue.

"What?" Spencer asked, fidgeting.

"What did you tell Internal Affairs—so that they—" Lassiter unwillingly flashed to his prickly treatment of Spencer outside of Vick's office. Spencer breathed out a shaky sigh, seemingly coming to the same conclusion that he had just moments ago.

"Lassie, you're not going to—you'll be fine," Spencer mumbled. For a few moments, he held up his hand, considering checking Lassiter's pulse again, but balled it into a fist and dropped it back to his side.

"Tell me," Lassiter insisted, not even noticing Spencer's movement. Shawn was unnerved by how soft and raspy the detective's voice had become. He bit his lip, and stole a glance at their captor out of the corner of his eye.

"Um," Shawn fumbled. He took in a shallow breath. "The spirits told me you were about to have a big break——in the King of Hearts serial killer case."

Spencer's voice bore a serious hush—the only other time Lassiter had heard this tone was the moment the Spencer had discovered the Yin Yang serial killer's possession of his mother. Carlton felt his mouth try to shape an ironic smile. For once, the faker had been telling the truth. The smile fell as he coughed, and Spencer gasped sharply as he noticed Lassiter had been biting his lips hard enough to draw blood.

"Lassie," Spencer muttered. "Oh, god."

"So you knew, then," Lassiter continued. "About the tip."

Lassiter's words cut into Shawn, filling in the wound with stinging remorse; he felt stupid with guilt at the part he'd played in this whole debacle, and as it should, it gnawed at him. His half-assed plans usually only backfired on him (and more often than not, Gus too) leaving him (them) in some kind of trouble or hassle. But this—he'd _never_ meant for something like this. But he never, ever thought things all the way through, considered the consequences, figuring everything would work itself out. Shawn ran a hand across his forehead, trying to gather his words for something, a confession, an apology, some humor or a spattering of hope. He'd opened his mouth to speak when Lassiter interrupted, as if he'd been struggling very hard to gather his own words together, but out of pain rather than regret.

"Bastard told me," Lassiter said, staring at the ceiling for a moment, then shifting his eyes towards Shawn. "He said"—here, Lassiter attempted an ironic smile, another painful paper cut to Shawn's guilt—"he'd called in the tip—himself. About himself."

"Lassie—I—he—he what?" Shawn questioned, his eyes widening. He was breathless, reverting nearly and neatly to his old ways; seeing the loophole, he knew he should jump through it without hesitation.

"Yeah," Lassiter confirmed softly, still trying to smile. It looked like it hurt. The attempt slipped as some dormant anger mingled with his serious tone. "O'Hara was—she was going to come here. She was so damn insistent." His eyes had filled with something, but Shawn wasn't certain if it was sadness or some sweat from his forehead. "That would have killed me," Lassiter told Shawn confessionally; he left the rest hanging in the air as his eyelids drooped.

Shawn shook his shoulder, selfishly unwilling to panic again if Lassiter went to sleep again and left him here with the killer. _"That would have killed me." _So, was this alternative, in Lassiter's opinion, Shawn wondered, the "better" one? Because this might _actually_ kill—Shawn shook his head. "Goddammit, open your eyes," Shawn demanded, shaking Lassiter's shoulder fiercely.

Lassiter complied, not responding to Shawn's words. He was staring at the ceiling, his eyes so still that Shawn panicked. "Dude!" he hissed, his heart thudding in his ears as Lassiter's eyes shifted towards him, holding some clarity.

"Spencer, I'm going to—tell you one last time," Lassiter coughed. "Run." He felt the _deja vu_ as he repeated his entire speech to Spencer again.

Shawn sat back, staring, looking as resistant as before.

"I can't—go," Lassiter whispered, feeling weighed down by Saul's earlier words that he was never going anywhere again._ "Hurts, don't it?"_ _Saul had laughed._ "You—get help." _It hurts, it hurts so bad. To have to ask you for help—but get me help._ Lassiter's mouth moved but these words he didn't say aloud. "I'll distract him, and then you go."

"Distract him, how?" Spencer hesitated. "You can't even move." Lassiter debated on a sneer, trying to shape the mean words that were usually on his tongue whenever Spencer came to mind—_why don't you run, it's what you do best? You're not a cop, you're a barely functioning and useless civilian—you're—you're—not O'Hara._ Oh. His partner. These were easier words to say, something that he wouldn't have been able to admit earlier in the day. And because it bore repeating, "Get O'Hara." _I need her._ "Go." His voice was fading.

Shawn looked over his shoulder. He glanced back to Lassiter. As cowardly as he felt complying, he reminded himself that Lassiter was in need of a doctor or maybe a team of them, a hospital, bandages and antiseptics and meds—probably stitches and a cast or a brace too. "How are you going to distract him?" Shawn pressed.

Lassiter pressed his head back against the ground. He felt a thin anticipation that his words were finally sinking into Spencer's thick skull and were going to be taken seriously. He'd been lying about the distraction though; at best, he could pretend that he was going to get up; he imagined that would rile Saul up. He mused that he could get into a verbal war with the killer; this might be more Spencer's speed anyway. "Doesn't matter—you need to promise me you aren't going to look back. 'Kay?"

Shawn wrinkled his nose at 'Kay?'; it was unlike Lassiter. He sighed, deciding to ask for a promise of his own. "Lassie, you need to promise me that—" Shawn bit his lip, unable to conclude his sentence with "you won't die". He waffled.

Lassiter squeezed a few drops of annoyance into his words. "Spencer, get out of here."

"Jules will be upset if you're not—just try not to get worse, promise?" Shawn hedged out, kicking himself for being unable to finish the thought. Without saying anything else or really thinking clearly, Shawn got up, determined that he would keep Lassiter from further aggravating his wounds.

"The spirits are sending me a vivid premonition about you," Shawn announced loudly, bringing his hands to his head. He looked in the killer's direction; he was keeping a good amount of space between them. "You're not going to go on forever like this. And not just because you'll die one day," Shawn added as an afterthought. "I see—swirls of red-blue lights and hear shrill sirens. I see—lots of Santa Barbara's Finest with hard expressions, guns loaded, drawn and cocked—all coming for you. Tonight."

Saul frowned, bunching a fist at his side as if he wanted to use it on Shawn. "You're none but a lying sacka waste," Saul snapped. He fingered his blade as he advanced from the shadow, closer to the light where Shawn and Lassiter were. Shawn, instead of backing up, or pivoting himself on a good angle to tear off, stepped towards the killer. He heard Lassiter protest weakly, but ignored yet another warning.

"Am I?" Shawn taunted back.

"He ain't got—" the killer broke off, catching himself with a frown, as if by even addressing Shawn this way he was lowering himself to the ground. Noise rumbled in his throat.

Shawn's courage was actually sitting at the soles of his feet, poised, he'd like to believe, for the inevitable chase. He knew he had to get a head start, even just a few seconds; to do that, he was going to have get into some physical altercation with the killer—and risk the pain that was sure to come when the two clashed.

"I've got a predilection that you'll be denied—"

"Big words for such a small mind," the killer muttered, staring flatly at Shawn's head. "You're wrong."

Shawn shook his head. Now that killer was giving him his full attention, Shawn found it terribly unnerving. He felt himself swallowed up in the man's dark eyes which had a cast a net around his body, reeling him in like a latest catch. He hated feeling like a fish squirming out of his safe zone, trapped like this without breath.

"The Dee-tech-tive is dead," Saul said, nodding sharply at Shawn as he continued to advance. "If you were more than a panhandler that's what you'd be seeing." He also continued to hold Shawn in the path of his dark eyes. "You'd also see exactly how you're gonna die—and when."

Lassiter was silent, listening with horror, knowing Saul was not telling lies. He wished he could side with Spencer, who was "predicting" the arrival of several officers tonight—but Spencer had been wrong too many times before.

Shawn hissed under his breath, but somehow managed a bright and snappish, "That's why _I'm_ the psychic and _you're_ not. The spirits are obviously not talking to you."

Saul chuckled, a harsh, rasping sound that almost had Shawn losing his nerve for the umpteenth time. He remembered what Lassiter had told him earlier about going for the killer's damaged arm. He was worried about how to maneuver so he could miss as many potential blows with the killer's knife as possible. It would be counteractive if he was also stabbed too deeply, if an artery was nicked, if he bled out before he could make it back to the door—a vain fight. Shawn gulped, realizing that Lassiter's stab wound may be the result of one of these previous scuffles between the men—vain escape attempts. What was hardest to understand was how Lassiter came to be at a disadvantage; usually, he was the go-to-guy when it came to apprehending a suspect—even when the opponent didn't play fair.

Wouldn't there be time for questions, for introspection, later? He still mused over it, indulging for a few seconds in the truth that the actuality of "later" was still up in the air—both for him and for Lassiter. Shawn shook his head hard, feigning another vision. He imagined Juliet's face now, tight and pale, a mess of mascara and other eye products trailing down her cheeks—what he couldn't imagine was the person she was crying over.

Swallowing his fear in an air-filled gulp, Shawn rushed forward wordlessly and lunged at Saul with his head and ears buzzing, his chest on fire, repeating the mantra so he would continue forward motion and not jump back: _Do it for Lassie, do it for Jules. For Lassie, for Jules. _

The killer hadn't expected Shawn so soon—or at all—though the look in his eyes barely flickered. Shawn's highly trained eyes zeroed in on the killer's right arm, where the blood from the bullet graze was still wet. He aimed his short nails for the wound, smacking both arms through the air, bringing them down hard—gouging. _Do it for Lassie, do it for Lassie. Jules. Jules._

Saul's eyes bulged with pain—twisting his cold features, though Shawn only caught a few glimpses as he dug in sharply, holding on even though he found it gross. "You obviously forgot about the _claws_ on roadrunners," Shawn sneered, whipping his knee to Saul's groin just as the killer maneuvered his knife's point under Shawn's bare forearm. Just one touch—yet a clean, half of a centimeter line of red pulled open—and Shawn jerked away with a cry. It was barely a pinch, and he wanted to feel more embarrassed for yelling out, _but it hurt._ In his haste, Shawn elbowed the killer's chin—and Saul lost his grip on the hilt.

He jumped back further, forcing his arm to his side as he brushed it against his jeans. With inexplicable cocky dread, Shawn enjoyed the killer's momentarily weakened state, basking in a victory of dealing the killer a taste of his own pain. But Shawn's easy smirk at Saul's doubled over condition began to falter as the killer straightened; he faced the unsettling possibility that nothing could fell the man. _"Talons_," the killer snarled, looking up with angrier eyes, "that I'ma gonna enjoy ripping off one by one." He dipped at the knees, his hand searching the floor for the Bowie.

Lassiter hissed—the word clear enough, especially since the detective had repeated it at least fifty times since Shawn had arrived here. Shawn inhaled a dizzying breath, pulling the air down his throat and against the muscles of his stomach, swearing he would not exhale until he was safely outside—or at the very least, to the cover of the darkest shadows. He risked one last glance at Lassie and then finally obeyed, bolting from them as quickly as his legs and brain would move him.

* * *

Carlton couldn't see Shawn's progress running away, but he was satisfied by the hard footfalls which grew softer and softer—_he's getting away, he's getting away. _He took the seconds of relief, forcing himself to believe that Spencer was going to get out of here and that, at the very least, the faker would survive. It was too much to feel for the thread of his own survival; it hurt too much to waste energy on that kind of hope.

Saul wasn't down long, but Lassiter couldn't help but notice the killer's cursing and stiff movements. He thought back to their own fight, where they'd exchanged kicks before lashing out at each other with their own held weapons. _Must have been the adrenaline then,_ Lassiter thought idly, _that made the killer recover so quickly. For Saul, it had been . . . coveted to be in a fight like that,_ he reasoned. _Fight with hapless, intelligent prey._ Lassiter made a sour face to himself, hating that he knew the killer's first name and that it was in his head, existing in his thoughts.

_"Jules will be upset if you're not—just try not to get worse, promise?"_

That stayed with him, long after Spencer must have been swallowed by the shadows, how much pain he was going to bring his partner when—if—she saw him—like this, or worse. Carlton felt new guilt; this train of thought hadn't even occurred to him, what O'Hara might feel when she took in all his injuries. He groaned inwardly, unhelpfully picturing her with some tears—no, she wouldn't really cry for him, would she? . . . No. He felt foolish for thinking she would—he would be lucky, if he survived, if she would even look at him again, let alone speak to him.

_What if she requested a new partner following this?_ The thought left him cold, as cold as he been earlier when Saul had outlined his plans for Lassiter's fate. Carlton felt stupid for this emotional attachment—that his actions had been so severely bad that not only would it cost him his gun, possibly his badge, his general respect and admiration and his field duty, but also his partner. And not just his partner, but his—his only friend.

Slowly, he remembered how O'Hara had been sad and disappointed right along with him when his streak of solving case after case and getting twelve or more suspects in a row to confess had come to an abrupt end. She had been proud of him, excited at his success rate, and loved to drink in his glory as much as he liked to go after it. But she had not been saddened that the glory was done but that his pride and confidence had taken a huge hit—a thought which now stunned him with its clarity. _O'Hara will be upset . . . . if anything hurts me,_ Carlton finished slowly, realizing that he had changed enough to address the situation likewise. He had not been delirious when he said what he'd said to Spencer about O'Hara's want to come here. _"Hurts, don't it?"_

It did—more than he could ever form into words.

For now, he was stuck. If she should come—and he did need this "girl"—he would—beg for her forgiveness. Or should he apologize first? Or express with words and not just a look in his eyes or a smile how much she meant as his partner and friend? The thoughts made him dizzy; he was unable to choose which one he should say first—that was, if he could still speak by the time—if—she arrived.

Carlton found it funny that he was considering these uncharacteristic thoughts—but, he amended, they were okay to be so lavish because he might be about to die. Or close, very close.

A partnership was about give and take, and theirs, he felt, had been much of him taking while she gave tirelessly. Though, they had both grown, Carlton reflected, and he had learned the value of sharing and playing well with—well, sharing. That was a good start, right? It was funny, and he almost laughed, but couldn't, when he thought that O'Hara played well with others while he ran with scissors, and yet they were partners.

_I can't die until she's—until I call tell her—what she, how much she means,_ Lassiter thought, resolved to fight for that goal.

The killer—Saul—rose to his full height, an inhuman growl rumbling in his throat. He brandished his weapon, holding it next to his face, but wasted precious time throwing his anger in Lassiter's direction. Though it sickened Carlton to know that Saul had bonded with him—even one-sided—he made himself hold Saul's eyes to buy Spencer more time in his fumbling escape. Before Spencer's footsteps had gone out of range, Lassiter had made out Spencer's scared huffs of breath; a_s if,_ Lassiter thought sardonically, _Spencer _didn't know _the future, as if what was in store for either of them was as uncertain as the killer's patterns. _He was surprised at himself then, realizing slowly that not all of him had been taken and manipulated by the killer. He told himself that he was going to hold onto that little bit left—hold on until Spencer got help and his partner arrived on scene. The hope did cost him; Lassiter closed his eyes, too overwhelmed to move.

When he was finally able to open them, still dizzy, Saul was gone. It took Lassiter a few minutes to realize that Spencer's wadded up shirt was missing from the wound at his side. He couldn't recall Spencer snagging it before running off, but he couldn't see it still nearby. Lassiter moved his hands back towards the wound, hating that he couldn't get up and run off too.

He'd fucked up. And trying to be noble about it—trying to make himself believe that it was okay because the killer was here, hurting only him and not some other near innocent—had taken an enormous toll. In these moments, not even _he_ couldn't fathom the actual end, but could already feel the edge of the knife piercing him, ripping his skin, not stopping, going deeper, deeper, until it would be too late. He felt lightheaded, as if his body's last drops of blood were already seeping out, or rushing, this time rushing, this pain the most excruciating, this pain making it too much to empty out his voice into the world, his last breath.

Gasping shallowly, Carlton forced himself to come back to his body, forced himself to keep his eyes opened widely, to wait alertly. Saul was going to come back, no doubt. And then he'd have Lassiter all to himself, just as he'd wanted it.

* * *

Shawn's head start turned out to be little more than twenty seconds. Then he heard the killer behind him, in chase, and once or twice close enough to hear the killer speak.

"I don't care what _he_ said, no _roadrunner's_ gonna kill a rattlesnake," Saul spouted cryptically through the layered shadows in pursuit. Shawn ran almost blindly, his fear making him believe he could feel the killer's hot breath on the back of his neck. The sick feeling he'd barely suppressed looking and looking at Lassiter's injuries was now making him weak—the killer could catch him and he could die, just like that. Saul didn't want to "play" with Shawn—and now he had even more reason to stop Shawn from leaving. Shawn's mouth fell open, stringy drool working itself from under his tongue to slip out of his lips.

Shawn picked up his pace, his footsteps hard and violent on the partial earthen ground. His escape was required—or Lassiter was doomed. Shawn ran with his heart's increased thudding drowning out all other sounds, including his own footsteps, the killer's breathing, his own. In his terror, Shawn was unable to gauge the killer's progress behind him—the sounds swallowed up, everything lost but this last hope, this very last hope that he get free—so he could truly save Lassiter's life.

He knew he could find his way out, even in the dark, because his memory would guide him. But his feet were distracting with their constant stumbles, his breath coming out fast. There was need in that quick glance he'd caught when he'd looked towards Lassie last—an upswing desperation; Lassiter did not want to die. When it came to death, he was just like any other man—the bravado was all talk.

Shawn was begging with his huffs of breath, _please, please, please_. He too was afraid of dying, and actually wished himself less stupid in the future, begging again with his breathing that he was still a living player in the landscape of the future. Behind him he was again starting to make out another set of stumbling footsteps, even though he zigged and zagged as he had been taught. _Please, please, please._

As he ran, a part of his active mind couldn't help but piece together why the killer really wanted Lassiter—and just what part the killer's grandfather played. After all, the suicide kings were a huge part of the killer's ritual—just what message was he trying to send? Shawn knew he may never know; many criminals were psychopaths with counterfeit realities, their "reasonings" personal, secret, but much too "real" to not act out on urges. Shawn couldn't figure out why, if the man's MO was to slice up his victims' faces until they were unrecognizable, Lassiter's face had been practically untouched. Why his feet were still covered with his shoes, the soles unbloodied, and the most important why—why wasn't Lassiter yet dead?

Likely, if the police had been involved sooner, they might have said that a detective, and the Head Detective of the SBPD, who was not on a known case or appointment, who was only "missing" for less than four hours couldn't—wouldn't—be missing. Or be missed. But if _Juliet_ had been informed much sooner— Shawn knew he'd done an unforgivable thing, sitting on that text message meant for Juliet, though he hadn't meant to bring pain.

_O'Hara, checking out the tips—_

Tips, it _had_ said "tips". Tipzzz. That was another questionable why—why _had_ the killer called in? Shawn wished his best friend was here to smack him in the head; he rolled his eyes, discomfited all over again. It should have been quite enough, a little voice told him, once Shawn realized what KOKH (even with some letters out of place) meant to spurn him into slightly more immediate action. He replayed his conversation with Lassiter in what already seemed like a lifetime ago about the killer's "logic" about tipping off the police about himself. And Shawn had clamped his mouth shut, unable to confess what he'd done. Partially, he'd been anxious a confession would garner no reaction at all; he thought it ironic that he was more disturbed with this than getting charged with "his part" in this crime.

Shawn couldn't remember what he'd last eaten, not even as it was coming back up in thick chunks. His body insisted he stop and pay attention to its sickened reactions, but Shawn made himself keep moving, relieved to be able to retch outside under the evening sky in puddle of standing water. There was a lot; it kept coming as he crawled on his knees and elbows away from the door he'd originally gone in, long before he'd _known. Known what he was getting himself into, known what his actions and non actions had cost._ This wasn't something stupid that he could forget easily, he reminded himself sharply as he fought his way back to his feet in the onset night.

Motion, then muted color, blue-red with the sharp odor of metallics flared to his left. Shawn gaped, still fighting for balance after his vomiting episode. He heard the low, furious growls of animal, surely a bear or a panther readying for a violated defense, close behind him. Shawn was shocked the killer had tracked him so well, had caught up while he'd laid on his face, wallowing in guilt. He tried to turn, tried to scream, tried to flail or lash out his arms in his own clumsy defense. Too familiar red splattered blue fabric billowed out, then went taut against his throat without a word. Shawn felt it tighten as the killer pulled it against his Adam's apple and twisted the ends at the base of his neck.

Shawn's eyes bulged as he choked, his hands clawing at the noose, going tighter, tighter. _No. God, no._ The killer's pungent odor went up his nostrils; there was an odd mix of excitement, triumph and sweaty fear, though, Shawn speculated quickly, the fear could very well be his own. He felt cheated, painfully sucking in breath through his nose, getting dizzier while the man held on. _No. Can't. No. _

Wildly, Shawn pulled against the killer's hold by throwing his body from side to side, pretending he was only playing his "boneless game" with Gus. The killer was not speaking, but now his hot breath sat at rest on the back of Shawn's head. He grunted at Shawn's flailings, but still refused to utter a word to remind his victim he was human. Shawn saw huge black spots as he rocked; the man was too strong, wasn't he? He had attacked and taken Lassiter and now he was—

Shawn gulped. He couldn't die, not here, not now. He gave in, letting all his weight tip his body to the left, where he'd first seen the movement. Tears sprang to his eyes; he was faint with lack of oxygen but he made himself keep pulling, determined to rip the killer off his feet. _Has to work, has to work, has to wor—_

Instead, the fabric around his neck slackened enough so he could slip out. By now Shawn's vision had blurred; he didn't have the time to move his arms up to protect his body his weight sailed him to the ground. _No . . . no,_ he thought groggily, both in the first half second into the fall, and then after, crashing hard enough to knock the small air left in his lungs out of him. _Can't . . . bad . . . ground . . ._ Shawn's eyes streamed and he gasped for air quietly while lying face down. _Bad . . . bad . . . get . . . no._

Breathing shallowly, Shawn worried through his blur of pain and tears that killer was standing over him, scraping his boots near his head, readying himself to plunge the hunting knife straight into Shawn's back. "No roadrunner," the killer mumbled then with amusement. Shawn's body jerked, then he fell still, holding in the very tiny breaths. When the killer's boot caught him on the left side, Shawn stayed still as the fire of the kick shot through his skin. Another kick followed, the pain erupting like a set of fireworks around his body, then another, the violence increasing with each blow. Shawn didn't make a sound; he took the pain without moving though between his abused side and his neck, he thought he might die. He was grateful for being face down; he was having a hard time catching his breath from being strangled. After the third kick, the killer paused above him; the silence deafening in the wait. Shawn didn't know what to do; worse, there were dots in front of his open eyes and he knew then he was blacking out. Something heavy fell against his back as he was going under into dark darker than the night wrapped around them.


	11. Chapter 10: Ask Me To Say What I've Done

Author's Note: Thanks to Egorstandish and Texasartchick for some help with inspiration of this chapter. Thanks also for my wonderful reviewers' continued support. *HUGS* Reviews and feedback are greatly appreciated and constructive criticism is welcome. Thanks and enjoy!

Minor references to various episodes/seasons in this chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Ten: You Ask Me To Say What I've Done, I Told You Just Like I Told Everyone**

* * *

* * *

When Saul returned, his gait slow, his expression was locked up tight so Lassiter couldn't tell if he was pissed off at losing one or if he was satisfied with his latest kill. Lassiter kept his own expression guarded, refusing to move his eyes towards the killer expectantly, for answers. Doing so would be harmful in too many ways—and the killer was already too consumed with power as it was.

Spencer had torn Saul's shirt while he'd lunged; Lassiter had watched the scene with dizzy horror. Saul's forearm had been exposed by a loose flap which was still hanging on by its fibers. It looked, Lassiter thought with a tiny gulp, like a torn piece of skin.

The killer took his time, his gaze burning Lassiter even at the distance; it magnified on him the closer Saul got. For a short time, even though he forced his eyes to study only the killer's body language and not his face, Lassiter felt singed from the inside out; he hoped a stray cough from Saul wouldn't cause his ashy organs to come apart like dust.

In the face of that "fire", Lassiter shivered suddenly, an action hitting him from top of the head to his toes. He didn't know if the shiver was out of varied fear, or if it was a physical reaction to the blood loss he'd endured. There was another tiny shiver, this one Lassiter suspected could only be fear—he knew, he just knew, that now that Spencer was out of sight, the killer could pick right where he left off with cutting. He bit his lips, tasting the blood that had arisen earlier, and silently begged to somehow be spared.

"Miss me, lawman?" Saul asked, the blade at his side catching some spare light. "I knew you'd be right where I left you. You got a destiny."

Lassiter refused to speak. Half of the jumble of words were wadded up in his mouth like the dirty cloth Saul had gagged him with earlier, and he couldn't sort out anything remotely coherent to refute the killer with. Besides, what if he did . . . _no. No. NO._ If Spencer were still here, even a silent admission of this would have meant a flick to one of his smaller cuts. Spencer might be a pain and a pest but he had also been an unwelcome but necessary voice of reason for Carlton—who may have succumbed much earlier to Saul's words, which sometimes cut into him more than the killer's knife. Saul circled around him, standing in front near his feet, gazing out, occasionally, into the shadows behind Lassiter's head.

The scars, the scars he was going to have if he survived. _If . . . if. . . ._ As if he weren't acutely aware of it before, Carlton found himself even more stunned that he was once again alone with the killer . . . and that he was _alone_. More than before, he longed for human contact—for her, and for the rest of SBPD to be here—because he couldn't stand being alone.

The room reeled, or if it didn't, he did; he forced himself to choke back bile because all he could smell now was his own blood and hard earthen floor that was likely to be his grave after all. He wanted to yell, to wail, he wanted someone to hear him and call—

"You're wrong," Lassiter ground out, his response much later than it should have been.

Saul frowned over him, his nostrils twitching. "That fool get a little into your head, did he, Dee-tech-tive?" The frown turned into a slow, wolf-like grin that left Lassiter almost gulping for air. He wanted to shake his head, to claim a draw; Spencer's being here had caused a stay in his mind for the time being . . . but what was going to happen if he allowed himself to be consumed by a new crop of toxic words from the killer's mouth?

Lassiter's breath shuddered from his lips. There wasn't any preventing this, should it happen again. He couldn't put up much of a mental wall because it hadn't worked the first time. There was only so long he could consider his own strength, and the likelihood of Spencer's escape and the appearance of O'Hara in double gun blazing glory. He'd come accustomed to her beating him to identification when they came upon a suspect, her loud, stern, "SBPD! Drop your weapons!" And no matter how foolish it was, he wanted to hear her say it aloud, even if it was only one last time.

"Tell me, something, lawman," Saul began. "You ever been hurt, real bad?"

Lassiter's eyes darkened, and he sneered, but maintained his silence.

Saul smiled with his mouth closed. "Now I mean sometime in the sands of the past, not in time to this little dance of ours."

Lassiter cursed, unable to stop. "Fuck you."

The killer chuckled. "Now, there you are. I knew it, I knew that little fire in you ain't gone out yet." He waggled the knife in Lassiter's direction, then raised an eyebrow. "Let's put that little question on the back burner. Tell me why you got between me and that charlatan."

Carlton scowled.

"That was a nasty hit; would about smacked the soul right outta him, if he had any. But of course not outta you. Why?"

His nostrils flared. He hated that the killer was actually waiting for an answer, that he expected Lassiter to continue to play along until . . . Inside, another batch of fear edged in. This was . . . all . . . too much. He couldn't do this, not anymore. Saul plunked himself down near Lassiter's right side, close enough to jabbed Lassiter's hands, still wrapped diligently around his side, with the tip of the blade. "You ain't got a choice, lawman," Saul warned dangerously. "You better get that jaw of yours open and start talking to me."

"Or what?" Lassiter shot back. "I'll get killed sooner than you promised?"

In the hiss of his anger, the killer laughed. "I like you." Carlton froze. He watched Saul watch him as the fear slid across his eyes, as he perspired further. "I can already taste your fire in my mouth. fueling my core—you're gonna make me the strongest man—" He cut himself off. "But you're still gonna talk to me now." He jabbed Carlton's fingers again. "Pretty soon you're gonna be seeing stars as it is."

Lassiter swallowed dryly, wishing he had the tiniest amount of saliva still left. He told himself that he'd stalled as long as he could by not talking; he had to now keep the killer talking as long as he could; he had to do everything he could not to piss Saul off too much, though the man's moods were difficult to predict: He couldn't guess what would or wouldn't set Saul off, get him a fist or slap to the face, or get him sliced and diced further. He swallowed again, a wave of panic coming up that he could only be stalling for nothing; no help was coming; that Spencer might even be dead. "I'd . . . I'd do everything in my power to protect anyone from you," Lassiter offered belatedly, unsure of Saul's reaction.

"That so?" A flick, like something discarded. Yet he did not added to Lassiter's mountain of pain.

"Yes," Lassiter confirmed. "It's why I came here . . . why I stayed." He could get away with these half truths; unless the killer was inside his head, seeing everything. "I . . . found the shoe."

Saul grinned, and Lassiter knew immediately, as he should have known when he'd laid eyes on the shoe, that he was walking straight into a trap. It hadn't mattered who—man or woman—was coming into towards him, all that mattered was that someone were coming. It was pure speculation that the person would be an officer of the law; yet he'd been expecting, via the tip he'd called in, that the visitor would be a cop. Strangely, Lassiter worried over beat cops on a routine patrol, like the ones who had found the seventeen year old's body in the Dumpster—what if they—or one—had come here? What if it had been McNab? His chest tightened, and he wasn't clear on a why other than what he had admitted to Saul about protecting the innocent. McNab didn't have enough years under his belt to deal with a thing like this; hell, _he_ was a relatively hardened man and still, this might actually kill him. A little voice yelled at him from within to stop being an asshole.

"You should have played your hand wise, let me take him out right then," Saul advised.

Lassiter felt a cold prickling migrate from the back of his blood soaked neck to his shoulders, then to his spine. He had to know. "He got away," Lassiter hissed. "You can't take anything from him."

"Did he, lawman? Get away?" He winked, an action which twisted Lassiter's knotted gut further. _He's just trying to scare me—he's . . . lying about this._

The killer leaned over him then, drawing close enough to put his mouth against Lassiter's ear. Lassiter flinched with extreme discomfort, leaning away in the limited position Saul that trapped him in. "Shhh," Saul hushed, pressing the tip of the blade into the hollow of Lassiter's throat. He began a crass whispering with the sound so low and inhuman that Lassiter was nearly convinced by disquietude that the thin words were merely the noise the wind made as it weaved through dry branches. Except the words were too heavy to be only the wind; there were too many dead voices speaking through Saul's as he described, in horrific detail, Spencer unconscious after a kick to the head, and each simple, deep slice to Spencer's face and eyes before the killer took mercy on the charlatan's sack of meat and slit his throat.

"You ain't gotta be jealous, lawman, I didn't take in no taste. After all, his blood ain't worth a cent to my conscience—wouldn't do a damn thing to bring me any strength."

Through the entire speech, Lassiter had forced himself to hold still, and had willed himself not to listen but he'd gone and heard every word. Saul spoke it like he knew, like he'd done the kill with a loving hand—and that it was real. He barely had any shallow breath, but he fought for the little bits in the space Saul gave him as he drew back, back, with a toothy smile on his mouth. _He's lying . . . has to be,_ Lassiter willed with desperation. But terrible thoughts had him assuming that Spencer wasn't a viable match for the killer, that it was all too plausible that he'd been—

"Now talk to your old pal," Saul cut into Lassiter's wild thoughts. "I want to know every which way you've been hurt. Ain't talking no scraped knees, you understand, no tiny drip of shame. All the big stuff. These things I gotta know, so I ain't make the same mistakes as you."

Carlton's thoughts, out of the blue, strayed to Lucinda—her spindly body turned from him after the brief passion they'd shared, a few strands of hair clinging to her forehead, her mouth pulled into a tight line that may have been considered a tiny smile. He blinked, but no matter what angle he looked back at her, at what they'd had, he could never imagine Lucinda offering him a platonic hug, or inviting him to her apartment for Christmas festivities with the bulk of her visiting family. Or offering, out of the misguided goodness of her heart, to him set up with a good friend of hers after having a chat with their Chief about the level of his aggression in the workplace, or having a mostly friendly competition with her over a few points on the DET exam. No, this was not Lucinda.

If he was going to be honest to himself, there was no better time than this. On the other side of things, he felt skeevy even being an unwilling participant in his dream—nightmare—about O'Hara last night. He could never imagine embracing O'Hara in anything more than a platonic manner, and he certainly could never imagine kissing her, not even on the cheek. Platonic was a funny word, a nearly alien one to his vocabulary; but even funnier, since he was becoming more accustomed to it, it had been easier to fall in, accept it. Besides, O'Hara had not made the cut for his "last man, last woman on earth re-procreation plan"—something he'd devised on one of his many lonely nights after he'd finally gone home.

Also, in all honesty, Carlton knew he had much less experience when it came to friendships than he did with romantic and intimate experience. Since early on, he'd been more of a solitary man, though he didn't seem to have a problem attracting desirable women to him. But, what if he had been "waiting all his life" not to meet a true love but a true friend—waiting to meet someone like O'Hara, who would—cheerfully and tirelessly—teach him the real definition of the word "friendship"? He breathed in and out quickly, hoping with seriousness the warmth dotting his skin was due to this realization and not a bodily symptom of his blood loss.

Lassiter, for now, took the former road, continuing his thoughts. Their partnership had been strengthened by their bond as friends—something he could not see with any of his previous partners, at least not since he'd entered detective territory. But he knew also that he had been too driven, too consumed by his own ambitions to focus on anyone but himself. He did the job well, certainly, but had not even considered what a partnership could be outside of work—other than his momentary lapse in judgment with Lucinda. A mistake.

As if the killer could read Lassiter's thoughts, or noticed the faint blush standing out under his eyes, he chuckled. "You tangoed with Lady Luck—you get your last kiss out there?"

Lassiter cursed softly.

"What's that, lawman?" the killer teased, his eyes dark and open. Lassiter flicked his eyes away. "You got some sweetheart out there who's gonna cry buckets if she ain't never see you again?" Saul's face remained loose; he knew as well as Lassiter that there wasn't anyone. He leaned forward to poke one of the shallow wounds at the back of Lassiter's head. He jabbed until Lassiter answered, _"No."_

Saul pressed the flat of his blade to the left side of his chest, and scrunched his expression mockingly. "Some'un unrequited love . . . maybe she who loved you but you didn't even know?"

Angrily, Lassiter repeated, "No."

"I gotta tell you," Saul continued, moving his hand from Lassiter's head to under his chin, "that is breakin' my heart. Good thing I got a backup in you." His eyes had gone darker, gleaming like two shotgun barrels aimed point blank at Carlton's face. Carlton tried to jerk his head free, uncaring of the consequences, but Saul stopped him, squeezing his chin and jaw tightly. "I ain't done with you, lawman, not for a second."

Lassiter heard the words tumble from his mouth, even though the killer had him by the jaw. Saul's eyes lost their loaded tension as his eyebrows raised, as if daring his ears to believe what they had actually heard. He released Lassiter's chin, rocking back on his knees, waiting. "What did you just say to me?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

"I said," Lassiter growled fiercely, sounding more grizzly bear than man, "that _she_ is going to kick your sorry, ugly, perverted, murderous ass from here to hell and back."

Saul frowned, listening to Lassiter's declamation, pondering, from the look Lassiter saw flash across his eyes, if it could be true. At the end, he nodded tightly to himself and slapped Lassiter with his open palm. Carlton's head slammed against the floor. "It ain't true," Saul hissed, as much to himself as to Lassiter. "It ain't true. You ain't got a soul."

* * *

His eyes opened, but he didn't know where he was at first.

He'd run, _as if, as if_—no, it was _please_. A groan; his neck aching at this angle. He'd run as if . . . there was a killer chasing him, as if he were the protagonist in a horror movie, the attractively masculine well-coiffed male lead, the costar to The Final Girl, the one who was guaranteed survival at the end of a horror movie. Of course, sequels were out when it came to rate of survival. . . .

Shawn jerked. His left side protested; was it already bruised a black-purple? He pushed up on his elbows, about to gather his knees to him when he was struck with clarity—he was alive. And . . . and still outside by the rain cooled temperatures of the night. Shawn's lip trembled; as he got up, an object slid from the middle of his back to fall against the back of his legs. He flinched, but reached towards his back, checking for the obvious stab wounds that told him he was actually dead or in a fit of phantom pain he couldn't feel. He felt nothing, not even a cut in the fabric of his t-shirt. Shawn gasped, then moved a hand back to his throat, and coughed. Before him, the building which he'd run from loomed—and he remembered the reason he'd run.

"God," Shawn hissed, jumping to his feet. He reeled unsteadily, his vision casting around for the object that had sat on him while he'd slept. _Slept for how long? How long? Oh, god._ At his feet, he saw what it was, and reached for it, incredulous that it had been left behind. Shawn gathered the bloody fabric to his chest, both appalled to have it and yet slightly grateful because it was cold and damp out here. But still, wouldn't it be weird to put the shirt that had almost strangled him back on? The shirt, he told himself shakily, hadn't actually done the deed; it was merely the tool.

"Why did he just leave me—alive?" Shawn croaked, puzzled, his voice scratched. "Why'd he leave me with this?" He tightened his fists around the shirt, mimicking what must have been the killer's hold on the cloth. Yelling out into the night, he shook the shirt out and pulled it on; it was sticky with blood. He stumbled as he picked up his frenzied pace from before, when he'd . . . when whenever had happened happened to stop him.

His running erased a torrent of inner torment about this most recent event; he couldn't let himself think about getting killed. He ran towards the shape of his motorcycle, hoping it was still real to the touch. He almost knocked over his bike as he jumped onto it. He didn't realize until he was riding away that he was shaking; he gripped the handlebars tighter, tighter.

He rode with some violence under his nails, the ire of a patient murderer still clutching his throat. He let his mouth fall open, let the air rush at him as he cut his way through the night recklessly, knowing how precious the last bits of time were. No way, absolutely no way was the man going to allow Lassiter to live. Shawn gunned the engine, taking the empty back streets so he could avoid slowing down, or stopping.

He'd learned, in the fifteen or so odd years since he had learned to ride a motorcycle, mostly how to avoid wiping out—to hug the shoulder when traffic was too thick; to grip the handlebars and ease off the gas in heavy rain. But he could count with two fingers the number of times his body had shaken this badly while he straddled his bike, fumbling with the kick start. Shawn found himself partially giddy at surviving the fumbling through the darkened maze of interiors and exteriors to escape the terror chamber, but any momentary relief he experienced was tempered by a cycle of worry and fear at what he had left behind—and by what he still had to do.

The killer hadn't stuck around after—Shawn was struck suddenly with the memory of Lassiter telling him early on that the killer had taken all of his guns—guns that almost always seemed to be firmly affixed in the detective's shoulder or belt holsters, if not in his hand; why, _why_ hadn't the killer used one of the Lassiter's guns on him? Shawn was certain he'd given himself away several times in the chase by how heavily he was breathing—or because the fear rolling off of him stunk up the already musky air. Why had he waited until Shawn had crossed the threshold; was it a lull of false security that had egged the killer on?

Either his brain or his bike knew just where to go, and he pushed the barriers of speed, even when on the highway. Time passed; he rode and rode. When the road was most familiar, he took a simple right turn too sharply with a squeal of tires; rubber burned as Shawn's heart lurched into his eyeballs; he was terrified of death. He braked hard with shower of sparks, but the bike skidded. The thoughts of the unfairness that he was really trying to do the right thing this one time and was going to die before he could bring help came after the three seconds of weightlessness as he was dumped from his seat. The air rushing into his mouth took his screams, even as he skidded like his tires had across the pavement, feeling the denim of his jeans fray and shred from mid thigh to calf on his right side. At least now . . . he could explain why he had blood on his shirt.

Dazed, Shawn laid in a heap, searching for even shallow breath; he wheezed until then, slowly gathering up his wits enough to realize he was not dead, and that, even though his right leg and entire right arm felt on fire, he was okay and he still had a chance. Twice, maybe three times, tonight he'd escaped death. Shawn coughed, carefully turning his neck, then unfolding his legs from the fetal position he'd curled into. _For how long? So much time, slipping. _He groaned, jerking his left hand to his stomach, which was still twisted from all that he had run away from. The hand moved from his stomach to his head with the intent to smooth out his hair; he was mildly surprised he'd managed to put on his helmet. He groaned again, drawing his knees in again before easing himself onto his back. He was not paralyzed, but he wasn't looking forward to standing. Shawn glanced at the damage on his arm, holding his regained breath furtively between his teeth. He thanked the fleeting smarts that had allowed him to pull the shirt around his arms; some cover was better than absolutely none. He winced, hoping he'd spared his skin some force feeding of gravel, road tar.

As he gingerly rocked on his tailbone, he noticed something else. He'd peeled out, to his luck, in the turn into the SBPD parking lot. Shawn cursed as he climbed to his feet, standing there for a few seconds to get his bearings. He felt like a lost child.

He could feel wet blood under the right knee of his jeans, knew before even looking down that his denim was torn enough so he looked like he'd been in a bad accident. Whatever he'd done in the seconds of tipping over, however he'd folded his body had worked; he'd been spared the possible horrors of a motorcycle crash: compound fractures, paralysis, coma, death. He was almost walking away without a scratch. He might have chuckled, since this wasn't entirely accurate, but felt a sensation of standing in a pool of blood up to his knees . . . wading in it. Shawn whipped off his helmet and tossed it near the fallen bike, stumbling as he tried to walk forward towards the station doors. His head buzzed crazily; a small voice urging him to drag the bike out of further "harm's way", but he continued to stagger forward. He had to free himself of the blood . . . the blood that was not his . . . the blood of a colleague, still partially his blame.

He had a good excuse, leaving it where it was. It was an accident he had to report immediately—plus, he'd had the accident because he was engrossed suddenly in a "vision"—a "vision" he was going to force them to hear in graphic detail whether or not they liked it.

Shawn's stomach pitched as he walked, not because it had more contents to empty out, but because he was suddenly afraid those inside those doors ahead of him would be as stubborn as Lassiter—unwilling to go anywhere, even though he was right here, pleading.

If they didn't listen, there was always his father's gun . . . But Lassiter _really_ didn't have that kind of time. Besides, Shawn knew he could not go back there alone, without reinforcements. This man, this killer . . . was much too bad. Absently, Shawn rubbed at his neck, groaning over his latest injuries—little annoyances, he told himself—from bike's toppling, and wincing at the fire still twisting his side from where he'd been kicked.

_What . . . what could the killer be doing to Lassie right now?_ Shawn quickened his pace, ignoring the moisture that made his eyes look wet with a spill of rain water.

* * *

Juliet wasn't sure when or how it happened, but the civil conversation between Chief Vick and Gus had broken out into an dialogue a few beats short of heated arguing. She found herself a prisoner between them, unable to find her voice or the words to halt their speech. It was dizzying, both to have Vick on her side and to hear Gus's passionate defenses as to why he felt Shawn was in some kind of danger. But she found herself sweating, the muscles in her stomach tightening further with every sentence. What Gus had said about a "feeling"—intuition—had her seriously twisted.

Again, she chided herself for her worry, for caring so much about the man who had made her first year at this precinct difficult, and for trying so hard to force him to be friendly—an action nearly against his nature. But she had committed herself to their friendship and working partnership, no matter how volatile or rocky both continued to be—besides, it wasn't all bad.

This was a thing that, she was certain, if she were wrong about her "intuition", her partner and her Chief and the rest of her fellow officers and coworkers would never let her live down, would compromise her diligent hard work as a mere junior detective then to her partner's equal now, and would put her, likely, at Shawn Spencer's wishy washy level. True, there were many officers and detectives, herself included, who had faith in Shawn's abilities (no matter if he was sometimes _way off_ with his predictions), but she understood that her position as a police officer could not come from a place of faith or otherworldly directives alone.

Juliet took the chance of damning herself in public, admitting that she might be mistaken, but her apprehension had bound her like a corset; she would need help getting out of it. "Something is very wrong," she said aloud. "And we _need_ to do something about it _now_."

Neither heard her, or acknowledged that she'd spoken. Working herself up again to be louder, more forceful, she stopped when she caught from the corner of her eye movement—a stiff turn towards it revealed the officer she'd directed to trace the GPS in Lassiter's phone.

"Detective O'Hara," he said, and they walked towards each other, meeting in the middle.

She waited, expectant, but felt the corners of her mouth turn downward as she noticed his stone-faced expression.

"Bad news," he told her. "I tried."

"What?"

He shook his head. "Couldn't get a location on Detective Lassiter's cell. The GPS is either turned off or damaged. And I checked the one in his Crown Vic too."

"Don't tell me," she whispered, knowing the answer already. Her heart jumped into her throat, a thick, bloody lump she knew she wouldn't swallow—until she had a plan.

* * *

As the killer, displeased with his captive, brought his knife towards Lassiter's collar bone, and poked at the end of one of longer cuts, Lassiter couldn't help but enjoy his subtle victory. He allowed it to guide him away from the pain for a few moments; Saul had slapped him because he'd been taken aback—and he was having a hard time reiterating to himself that Lassiter wasn't as alone in the world as he had thought.

Saul hadn't even asked who "she" was, who "she" could be. Lassiter wondered what had possessed him to blurt something like that out—but directly before, he'd experienced an ireful warmth that had burned his throat like a strong drink. And it wasn't just talk; he _felt_ it, he felt it strong in the blood still flowing through his veins.

It was only a tiny flap of skin, right? Removed, peeled back from the rest—much more, still attached. But why, why did it hurt so badly? He trembled, squeezing his eyes shut against the killer's knife, his laugh, his eyes—each with their own sinister penetration into him. His scream was cut short with the killer's loose fist to his mouth.

"You're gonna make me shut you up, lawman," Saul warned, retracting his fist slowly. "And I want to keep up our talk." Lassiter forced his eyes closed again because he'd tasted blood again with that punch—and he didn't want to watch the killer taste whatever blood that might now be on his fist.

"Thought . . . thought we're . . . _alone_," Lassiter whispered, hating how lonely the last word sounded in his mouth, how barbed and empty it was, how hopeless.

Saul laughed again, sounding eerily jovial. He pulled the knife from Lassiter's collar bone and placed it on the floor out of Lassiter's reach. The killer made certain to keep it just in Lassiter's line of sight, as a tease of how close it was, yet also how far. He knew as well as Lassiter did that his prisoner could no longer move about freely, could not stand as he could before. To prove his own point, Saul sat back on his haunches and smacked Lassiter's damaged ankle with the back of his hand, keeping his eyes affixed to Lassiter's face. A shock wave rocked Lassiter's body, leaving the surface of his skin tingling enough so he felt he might be floating away, checking out. He was sure he must have cried out, because he could make out Saul's growl through the hum of hurt in his ears.

Lassiter returned slowly, shaking involuntarily, and realizing that, the closer he got to full consciousness, he was cold. Not the discomfort of his still damp clothing stuck to him in this dank space but because he was in a losing battle—losing blood, devastated by other injuries—dependent on phantom help that would likely never arrive. But there was still, the thing that pulsated, blinked, winked like an eye or a star. _She. Her. _No matter what, he knew he couldn't give that up. Even if he lost the name or label that went with it, because these words could save him.

Saul was watching him come back, seemingly ignorant to Lassiter's inner concern about how long or little of his life was left.

Lassiter stared back dizzily, running his tongue around the inside of his parched mouth. He found himself bone dry thirsty again, and unsatisfied by the trickles of sweat from his temple sticking to his cheeks. He looked for words to assault his captor with, empty threats like, "I have nothing to say to you," or "You can't make me talk," or "Why won't you just kill me already?" but physical things were getting much too hard. Even thought, only to himself, was getting tricky. He was terrified of dying . . . but he was more terrified of showing his complete fear to Saul . . . and letting the killer take it all.

"You in want to know why you ain't got yourself no Lady Luck out there?" Saul asked, rubbing sweat from his upper lip with his the sleeve of his right arm.

Lassiter hated himself for allowing an image of Victoria, specifically her back as she let herself out of Gerard's doors and left him forever, appear to him as Saul spoke. The ache was much less_—that_ ache, hers, what she had left in him—now than when it had been then.

"You ain't got yourself a soul because you got a mind just like mine—and no'un can be your equal."

"I am," Lassiter hissed. Saul only laughed.

"You ain't my equal, lawman—you're my sacrifice. Every small thing I've done till you was worth it—every little drop and spill of blood. Worth it."

"Thought you said . . . I was . . ." Lassiter felt sick repeating the words, hating that there could be even an ounce of truth to them. "Just like you."

Saul raised an eyebrow, considering what his prisoner said. "It ain't true," he finally said slowly. "You got it backwards. _I'm_ just like _you_."

Lassiter gulped, confused and nervous as Saul drawled on and on about lone wolves, rangers and sentinels—warriors; at the bare bones, the killer told him, he was a hunter, taking only 'Justice' as his mistress and 'Law' as his wife. "There's a coldness about you, lawman, that I strive for. Will too, after I take in your heart, your blood, your strength—I'm a-gonna have it all." He laughed again, and Lassiter felt faint with cold; goose bumps raising on his neck, under his damp clothes.

Saul sat back on his heels, studying his victim with the uncomfortable intensity that had become much too common. "You should be sat-is-fied, lawman," he said, boring his eyes into Lassiter's face. "Grateful, even."

Lassiter tried to gather enough laughter together for a guffaw, but the sounds were only the panting of breath in his ears, echoed by a furious racing of his heart. _What—what is he talking about now?_

"For the first time in the long desert highway stretch of your life, Dee-tech-tive," Saul continued, "some'un wanted you. Wants you." Saul grinned ferociously, and Lassiter shivered to himself, unwilling to fully comprehend what he was being told. _They're . . . lies . . . don't believe his lies! _As if unable to resist, the killer slowly laid his hand on the side of Lassiter's face that wasn't cut; Lassiter forced himself to remain still, though he wanted to wince, squirm, jerk away. The gesture's meaning was obvious to him; he was merely the latest—and shiniest—possession in what may be an even larger, unknown collection of bodies, of blood trails in the dust. "Ain't it nice to be wanted?" Saul repeated in a lulling hush. Lassiter unwillingly breathed in the venom of this hush, grateful—how ironic, he thought—when the killer's hand slid off his skin. It had all started with that . . . Lassiter frowned sharply. With the killer's tongue on the back of his neck. The first assault, never mind that on his fall down the stairs, the killer had confessed to smashing the back of his head with a 2 x 4. Or that he'd bound Lassiter and stripped him of all weapons, his badge, taking even his name to spit it back without a shred of respect.

When Lassiter opened his mouth, Saul threatened him. "You better not be tossing no more cusses my way, you understand, boy?" He breathed in through his nose. "Don't want to end this too soon." His mouth turned up. "I ain't ever had this kind of fun."

"You're lying," Lassiter challenged right away.

"What did you just say, boy?" His hand snaked out and got Lassiter by the chin.

Lassiter frowned. "You're a liar," he repeated. "I heard in your voice when you spoke of 'your last's blood' on the stairs." Lassiter gritted his teeth hard on "your last's". Saul released him.

"Shoot, you think that was fun for me? Reaching into an empty shell for a prize that ain't there, ain't never there?" His eyes glinted with steel. "'Bout to give up hope. Then there was you."

"Stop it! Stop it!" Lassiter yelled out, regretting the emotion, regretting how open he'd left himself. On top of that, it hurt him everywhere to cry out like that.

"Am I scarin' you?" Saul drawled, deliberately slowly. "Or you finally showing me the gratitude I deserve?" He pointed the a finger towards Lassiter's face. "Giving me respect you should have been showing me since the second I took your blood into me?"

"You're sick, you're a sick, sick bastard—" Carlton bit his lip, knowing, even as they spilled from his mouth, that they were useless words, and they only feed the killer in some way, if not for his rage then for his laughter—both which brought him power. He squeezed his eyes shut because he didn't know what direction to take when it came to this man and his demented logic. He hated this, every second of it.

"What you think you're gaining by holding out on me, lawman?" Saul asked. "If I'm anything like you, then I know you'd got a wounded world festering in your gut, an ache you gotta release." He raised an eyebrow as if to allow the statement to sink into Lassiter. "Maybe your brother, or your father, some other blood relation or friend to your kin laid into you, beat you to the ground? Broke your spirit while trying to break it in?"

Lassiter listened as the killer spoke, wondering if he added "grandfather" to the list he'd see those stars that Saul had promised him. The killer prodded with further, more sinister implications, but Carlton refused to be baited. Either Saul was trying to vindicate himself and his actions with a "heartfelt" confession about his own past, or he was trying to dig his hooks into Carlton to be assured his victim was entirely helpless to stop whatever it was that was coming before death.

Unwittingly, Carlton's thoughts turned back to his partner, the edges of her face a blur; she was getting harder to see, but he thought of her on the first day they were introduced—how insulted he'd been at first to be paired with someone so young, so green, an out-of-towner and a female. But he'd already gotten himself in hot water with the new Chief, also female, with his off-color remarks and indiscretions with his former partner. The new Chief was not about to allow him any leeway, and certainly would snap off his wagging tongue should it fall too far out of his mouth.

This was something, he could now admit, that he actually had come to respect about Vick; after all, she'd earned her title for a good reason. He could confessed ashamedly that, in the beginning, he'd briefly flirted with the idea of having his new junior partner look up to in such a way that had a romantic slant, because he'd wanted, as the man he was then and not as the man he was now, something of importance to lord over her—a means of control to keep her line, and beneath him in position and advancement. These were thoughts that made him redden now; he knew how much of a jerk he'd been. The wounds of Lucinda's transfer, which _she_ had facilitated, had still been raw and he had wanted to use his new pretty partner as an excuse to boost his ego.

That was the plan, until she had laughed in his face. And grimaced, as if she couldn't believe such an idea had crossed his mind. She had almost seemed repulsed, as if he smelled bad or was in some other way _that_ unattractive to her.

He also had to admit that his little stunt, which he'd brought upon himself with zealousness, was one of the reasons he'd stayed relatively sour to his new partner in the beginning—because she'd bruised his delicate ego. It was pathetic, trite, and he despised himself for not knowing how he'd existed, behaving so awfully for years. Then, there was her . . .

Not only her, but a combination of factors that had brought his errors to light. The Chief had helped, and he'd be loathe to ever say it, but Spencer's and Guster's forced presences on the unusual cases had helped shape and change the dynamics of how cases were worked out, analyzed, processed, thought about, solved. _Solved_.

Pain brought him racing back to the surface of his thoughts, breaking with a mournful groan. Saul drew the blade several times across the material of Lassiter's slacks, up and down his left thigh, until the fabric severed. Saul traced the lines he'd made, except this time he sliced a bit into Lassiter's skin. He stopped before it got too deep, enjoying the revival of pain, the tight lines, onto Lassiter's face. "Just a little reminder you're mine—ain't no one gonna stop me from takin' from you—takin' everything." He stopped once Lassiter's attention was fully back on him. He smiled at the anger breaking through Lassiter's pain.

"Now, I want to hear it from you, lawman. You ever been hurt?"

Everything from his past paled in the bright light of this torture, of this colossal failure, but through the red shades of this newest pain, Carlton gasped. The killer wanted something raw, real. But would he know one lie from another? _I'm damned either way. _"I don't—I don't know what you want me to say."

"I'm gonna teach you something, lawman—the price you pay for keeping that silence, wanting to take your secrets with you into the grave." The killer reached into a front pocket of his flannel, producing a long hidden suicide king with the flourish of a Las Vegas table dealer.

Lassiter gasped out loud, keeping his eyes on the card. His insides flashed with hot, cold. Cold. Had the moment of his death arrived? He thought he'd prepared; he had to keep stalling. "Wait," he said thinly, "wait."

Saul's dark eyes were upon him, pinning him to the floor. Like a magician on stage, Saul curved the card in his palm into a tight "C", taking extreme care not to put a crease in the middle. Pinching the ends of the "C", he held the card with one hand while he clamped the other around Lassiter's jaw, prying his mouth open.

Lassiter struggled, twisting his body until he saw spots. He had a horrible fear that Saul knew how to break his jaw and would do it, but he was just as scared when he felt the folded card against his tongue, the roof of his mouth, inside the back of his teeth, in. Saul released his jaw. His eyes bulged, and he ran his tongue over the foreign object, pushing it away from his throat, closing his jaw hard to make the card crease. It was a harder task than it seemed it would be. Lassiter moved his eyes around the room, trying to swallow panic while holding onto his breath.

Saul was watching, amused. He held his weapon, clutching the hilt, seeming to be waiting for the perfect moment to strike, going for his victim's heart.

* * *

Shawn took a spill climbing the stairs, a feat usually only awarded to Gus in his most brilliant (awful) falling maneuvers. His head pounded badly, and he couldn't decipher if this was out of pain or fear or anticipation. He kept walking, though all he wanted to do was crawl onto one of couches in the Psych office and sleep.

He was starting to doubt himself, as he had in the parking lot; he hadn't been convincing against the killer; could he still be convincing enough for the police? He raised his hand to his head as he walked the SBPD halls, not to fake a vision but to steady his thoughts, his nerves. He was unaware of the gasps around him at his appearance, oblivious to how much blood was actually on his shirt, how torn his jeans were. None of the cries penetrated the fortress he'd created as he tried to come up with a proper and persuasive argument. His plans for speech, as before in the presence of the murderer, came up short. He sighed. As always, he'd have to make up something on the spot.

The first person he actually heard calling his name was Gus—his second voice and first conscience, the one person to stick with him, see him through, put up with him—forgive him for anything.

* * *

Gus, who'd had his back to the entrance where Shawn was coming in from, had been startled out of his "discussion" with the Chief by the cries of disbelief, the mutterings and offers sent out to get some help. He had no idea at first who they were talking to, or about, but a 180 degree whirl brought him face to long distance face with the reason for the noises of horror.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Juliet O'Hara jump.

He watched as Shawn shrugged on his best "business" face, even though Shawn looked like he was in too much pain to do anything but lounge around the Psych office and demand Gus make multiple 7-11 runs for snacks refills.

"Chief!" Shawn called out, picking up his pace. Gus noticed, with a gulp of worry, that Shawn was limping; he took in the bloody clothing then, and fell back. "Chief!"

"Mr. Spencer?" Vick asked, her concern obvious. She took a step forward, dropping her hands to her sides.

"I just had a vision," Shawn called out, jogging the rest of the way towards them. Quickly, he took in how pale Juliet's skin was, how hollow she looked; he was certain she "knew" something, without actually knowing "what" it was.

"Shawn, a vision?" Juliet broke in over Gus's voice. She froze, suspicious. "You're covered in blood! What happened?"

Shawn attempted a placating smile. "It's nothing, Jules, just wiped out on my motorcycle. It's in the parking lot." He dropped the smile. "The vision was so strong I got shaken from the physical plane."

"What vision?" Vick cut in, slightly ashamed she wasn't doing much to acknowledge Shawn Spencer's ragged appearance.

As Shawn began to explain the contents of his "vision", Gus found himself thoroughly confused. He wondered if there was a solid reason why his processing abilities were lagging; maybe Shawn had ceased speaking English? Later he would swear he heard mentions of the serial killer dubbed "The King of Hearts" by either the police or the media, but right now, he couldn't be sure. Before he could get his bearings, be the straight man to Shawn's general silliness (a condition voided from this "vision"), Shawn said, "And I was there."

"There? Where is 'there'?" Juliet asked at the same moment Vick and Gus demanded, "What do you mean, 'you were there'?"

Tightly, Gus nodded to the Chief out of privacy, then stalked towards Shawn.

"In spirit," Shawn clarified, ignoring Gus coming straight for him. He continued to describe the location, and the building both inside and out, not sparing them the details of smells of earth, of blood. Foregoing his usual "hand to head" motion, Shawn used the intensity of pain in his latest injuries to his advantage, clutching at his left side before remembering that Lassiter had taken a stab to the right. There, he concentrated his "pain", and moaned and howled like a child who'd just stubbed his toe—as if it were the end of the world.

Gus blocked the view of the women, standing tensely in front of Shawn's form. "What the hell do you mean, Shawn?" he spat in a low voice. "What are you saying? What did you do?"

Shawn flicked his eyes to Gus's, nearly shrinking at the unusual fury there. In an aside to his friend he whispered the truth. "I was _there_, Gus—with the killer."


	12. Chapter 11: Juliet Of The Spirits

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. I also do not own references to _The Phantom of the Opera_.

Author's Note: Thank you, wonderful readers and reviewers! I was overjoyed at the response for the last chapter (I know I still owe many people author responses, I haven't forgotten.). I hope the length makes up for the long time away from updating-land too. As always, reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome. Enjoy!

Note: I have begun working on a sequel for this story.

**WARNING:**** THIS CHAPTER IS VERY GRAPHIC (WHUMPAGE WISE) AND VERY BLOODY. **

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**Chapter Eleven: Juliet Of The Spirits **

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A terrible, soul sucking thought entered Lassiter's consciousness, feeling thick, overwhelming, unwanted, like a truth of a matter, a thing he never wanted to see. There had been times, during the smattering of a few cases, that Lassiter could almost feel his partner leaning away from him, leaning directly into Spencer's air—siding with him, almost immediately, over her very own partner. This didn't happen often, but it was still unsettling and—he felt a punch of chagrin—made him want to die, on the inside. She was, he had become more and more aware, the _only_ one he could really depend on, the only one who had _made an effort_ to be his friend.

There had been a day, he remembered, when he'd snapped at her after one of her latest assertions of power—an action which he both respected yet irked him to no end. She'd sided with Spencer constantly while only in conversation with Lassiter, and he'd commented rudely that maybe she should take Spencer as her new partner, since it was obvious who she actually believed in.

O'Hara had brushed this off, nearly immediately, and had, he recalled with dread, stroked his ego until he forgot about it.

What if he had, over time, pushed her more and more in Spencer's direction? Would he—could he—possibly be O'Hara's new . . . unofficial police partner? _She'd be happy about that,_ a little voice helped. He wrinkled his brow. Wouldn't matter, would it? He'd be dead anyway. . . but it still hurt, like a deep ache, for Lassiter to think of it. _She's . . . sort of mine,_ he thought. _And . . . Spencer's not a cop. He'll only get her killed someday . . ._ Lassiter closed his eyes. Was it stupid, reckless, useless for him to want to protect her even as she pulled away from him? He thought of her as already lost, himself . . . dead. Spencer had been wrong. No one would be coming back for him. He had . . . no one. Saul was . . . right. Lassiter thought of peace, its cleansing hush pulling him down, down. Saul was right, and he could only trust the killer now.

This was . . . wrong, he knew it was wrong. He couldn't trust the man who would be his death. His head was splitting in these arguments of what to believe.

He wanted to have someone's arms around him, someone he trusted with his life, someone he could fall against (though it was hard to say he'd ever let himself fall before), who'd give the necessary strength until he could again stand on his own two feet.

In his life, he could honestly admit there were only two people that fit. Three, if John Fenich was considered, but to a much lesser degree, even though he'd stepped in at a dangerous point in Carlton's youth. But sticking with two, there was his surrogate father, and there was his partner. And there was really only one in this equation he'd actually consider to see him in what might be his most ruined state.

He made these considerations as he worked on the latest test his captor had forced upon him.

It took a lot of concentration and a fight against fear and his thirst and his gag reflex, but Carlton was relieved when the card's "C" clamped between his teeth put a crease in the suicide king. The battle was only half over, since this card seemed larger than those found on other bodies, though this might be untrue.

Lassiter bent the card in his mouth with his teeth, and chewing at it to fold it again, and spat it from his mouth. Saul didn't stop him; he only watched with grim interest.

"The most risk," the killer said. "Every drop of blood, worth it. Every kill, practice kill."

After he'd freed himself of the card, he rasped at Saul, who still stared amusedly back, "You can go straight to hell, you sick son of a bitch."

"That so?" Saul drawled, his hand still around the hilt.

"Damn right it is," Lassiter continued, though the effort for these angry words was about to burn him out. He rushed the rest. "If you think I'm sharing one thing with you, you can eat shit. I know—you're going to kill me." It was, in hindsight, easier than he'd thought it would be to relinquish control to Saul, to make this confession of sorts. It frightened him still, to say these words aloud, to know the weight of their truth, but his chances to survive were too slim.

There was another side to this, however; he was grateful, despite his pain, despite his fear and paranoid thoughts, to still feel his own heart beating, to still take in breath. To be living.

"I knew it, in the first moment I saw you," Saul said with a smile, "that no'un had broken you but that I could. That's an honor, boy." He raised his eyebrows when Lassiter's lips parted, jabbing the tip of the knife at Lassiter's face. "Save that cussing."

"It's not a honor to be murdered," Lassiter countered.

"Ain't it, boy?" Saul said. "You lawmen on your steads, with your shiny pistols, always looking for a fight?"

_Lawmen._ Was it a slip of tongue or was it another test to see if Lassiter could guess how many cops Saul had killed before? Killed, just like this?

"What's that code you got? In the line of duty?" Saul poked Lassiter's chin with the blade, then traced the line of his neck down to the bloody hair on his chest. "What's one way of dying to the next?"

Carlton kept his mouth shut. He meant what he'd said. There wasn't any reasoning with this man.

"You'd be happier if you went down defending honor of—"

"I hope you die," Lassiter said quietly.

Saul smirked. "Before you, or after?"

"Does it—matter?"

"You like that slow burn aggression—you've said it to others?"

Lassiter experienced _deja vu_, realizing that he already exchanged these words with Saul, in the beginning, when his captivity was new, when he still had a chance to fight, to get away. When he didn't answer, Saul continued. "You have." He nodded slowly, then grinned. "But bet you ain't never been this close to Death's pale face?"

Carlton pressed his mouth into a tight line. It was true, but he didn't have to give it to Saul. The man dropped the subject as he stood up to appraise his captive. He nodded, then turned his back to Lassiter to head towards a patch a shadows. "Promised, didn't I?" Saul said over his shoulder. "You're still pretty enough for the pictures." Lassiter couldn't see what was doing, but shortly Saul turned around and walked back towards him. Lassiter saw he held some long objects in his left hand, possibly items of opaque plastic. Something gleamed. Saul jabbed his knife in Lassiter's direction and amended, "Maybe pretty enough for those slasher flicks."

Lassiter had to bite his tongue hard to not make a remark about still being fit for an open casket. Thinking of death was a terrifying prospect; no matter how courageous he was, and would it find it an honor to die in the line of duty, he didn't want to die. He'd already said it, but he wanted to avoid repeating it unless it was in anger. He had to look at Saul as he found another way of saying it, asking still to gain an insight or a weakness of Saul's. _Always trying, trying. Can't give up._ "You knew exactly how to cut me, didn't you? Even in the heat of the moment—you're an expert." He kept his mouth flat, and continued, "Just so, so I wouldn't just bleed out, here and—then."

Saul nodded. "That's right, lawman. Stopped ya good." He squinted, wrinkling his forehead. "Didn't have to come to that—you shoulda just surrendered."

"Like hell."

Saul smiled. "Now that's what I appreciate—you got fire—brimstone—ash—sparks, lots and lots. Your blood"—he paused as if he were already savoring Lassiter's blood—"it's gonna keep me motivated." His smile spread. "You should be honored, lawman. I don't chose just _anyone's_ heart to eat."

Lassiter found his scowl and sarcasm. "That's touching. I'm flattered, you sick waste of space." He managed to catch himself before uttering anymore, instead, diverting the killer's attention into another question. "They—didn't mean that much to you, not as much as—?" His lip turned up, but he went on, "But why be so careful with your—others?" Lassiter asked, resisting an eye close as he remembered the crime scene photographs and bodies of this man's dead. "Not careful with me?"

Saul studied him, cocking his head like a dog seeking its next stimulation.

Lassiter hoped he wasn't giving Saul ideas. "Your DNA—saliva, blood—you left it on my skin. CSU and the M.E. will be all over that." He waited, his Adam's apple moving nervously. Again, he hated to think of himself as just another cold body at a crime scene. He shivered as Saul stared back blankly for a few minutes, before his face began to split.

"I knew I'd get you to come around, see things my way, Dee-tech-tive." He grinned at Lassiter's confusion. "I should take it to heart"—he made a gesture of crossing his heart with the blade of his knife—"that you've seen the light—that we are alike."

Lassiter gasped, trying to deduce how his questions had formed these answers coming out of Saul's mouth. Not so long ago, the killer had been contradictory, proposing his grandeur to his victim; _of course_ he would be superior, having the upper hand. Now, had he . . . unwittingly confessed just what Saul wanted to hear, the "perfect" speech to bring the two back to even ground?

"You all worryin' for me, figuring that you're gonna somehow get me caught," Saul continued, then laughed harshly. It ended with a hacking cough. He dropped down close to Lassiter, dragging the blade through his hair. "Well, you ain't." The blade rested against Lassiter's cheek.

Lassiter hated having this man so close, touching him, breathing on him; the only thing worse, besides the inflicted pain, was watching the killer lap up his blood.

"No way can I leave you here, uh, uh," Saul said shaking his head and holding Lassiter's eyes. "Ima gonna take you, in pieces, to the desert, boy. Didn't you always want a desert burial? Lotsa sun, dust, long quiets, nothing but rattlers for miles and miles." He smiled. "You'll fit right in, lawman."

Carlton was unable to process anything following the words "in pieces". His body had reacted with cold sweat to his armpits and fingers just below the knuckles, with shaking in his shoulders. His mind was fighting overload; today must top the all time worst days of his life. And the terror had quadrupled from his days as a rookie hostage. It was hard to think.

Saul shuffled down to Lassiter's feet, setting down his blade and the fistful of objects. He grabbed the longest and looped its ends around Lassiter's ankles, locking them together tightly on Lassiter's twisted ankle. He retrieved something else from the floor; Carlton couldn't see what it was but by the time Saul had moved from his feet towards his torso, his legs were somehow held to the floor. "It's nice to have one for the road," Saul continued, brushing away flecks of dried blood from Lassiter's arm. Then he roughly grabbed both of Lassiter's wrists, wrenching them away from the wound he'd been applying pressure to. Lassiter twisted, even after Saul's knee landed on his chest, wrangling him down. He was surprised his limbs still reacted as viciously as his thoughts, wanting only be away from the killers touch. Saul leaned on him, lifting Lassiter's arms above his head finally and slamming them to the ground. Carlton choked; Saul's knee had slid to the hollow of his throat. He could feel his the tired fight in his muscles, but also felt plastic tighten around his fingers, binding his thumbs to his pointer fingers, binding all of his fingers together, actually. Carlton gasped. The plastic hurt and held him tight too. He'd tilted his head back to watch, even though it gave Saul's knee more of a valley to lean into; he watched Saul bend his arms at the elbows until his hands were directly above his head, then push a pronged piece of wire over his bound hands into the floor. Neither the plastics on his arms nor his legs had any give. He was trapped.

Carlton wasn't much thinking about the barrenness of this same but more about the silence and how tight it waslike a cage. He couldn't gauge his own pretenses, or reach into his morals for a pep talk, or continue his usual public persona. Carlton screamed.

A scream, he thought, like a victim of a horror movie killer's wrath, screams of someone in want of warding off death.

Saul stopped him with an old standby: a fist to lips; blood seeped from his mouth. The memory of the screams already dissolving, Carlton felt the vibrations of whimpers, like bees behind his teeth, escape. Without missing a beat, Saul dipped his finger in the blood on Lassiter's chin and stuck it in his mouth. "Tastes like gold, boy."

The yelling had taken much from him; he worked his jaws to bring up another one; his horror couldn't be contained.

"Maybe we've spoken enough?" Saul asked, as if he could read Lassiter's mind.

"I'll get you," Lassiter whispered. "I—"

"You're gonna be dead—'cept your power's gonna live on. In me."

"No . . ." The word slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it. He felt another scream bunch up in throat; he knew it was useless, but he didn't know if he could handle this anymore.

"Hmmph, guess I'm outta practice when it comes to civil talk." He reached for the bundle of bloody fabric still behind Lassiter's head—Lassiter's gray suit jacket—and twisted the fabric into a thick line. Before Lassiter understood what was happening the jacket's material was in his mouth, being forced deep between his was something he couldn't spit out. Bound, Lassiter could do little other than move his head to keep Saul from completing his task. Saul paid him no mind.

"This is for your own good," Saul smirked as he gagged Lassiter, blue eyes like lasers. "Don't want you biting your tongue in half." His smirk widened, and he patted Lassiter's cheek. "That'd be some kind of messy." Lassiter jerked his head away.

The killer had a "down to business" edge to his words— Lassiter felt cold when Saul secured the fabric. _Nothing left. Alone._ With a procrastinator who may or may not have escaped to bring him help. He yelled again, one last time. To him, the noise was earsplitting.

# # #

Gus wanted to wait for Shawn to explain, but he knew he wouldn't wait for his best friend to make up a bunch of twisted half truths or list lies to fully "explain" why he looked so mangled and now, with this latest revelation, that he'd apparently been more than just in the vicinity of a serial killer's HQs (or whatever killers called their hangouts nowadays). His worry and anger at Shawn's latest reckless venture manifested.

Without warning, Gus balled a fist and slugged Shawn's solar plexus. In the few seconds before, Shawn had finally been feeling safe, here with Gus, standing inside the police station where the killer was nowhere near and there lots of trained officers with loaded guns. Shawn grunted, his eyes bulging out as his breath was pummeled from his lungs. His quick mind barely had the chance to form the thought that Gus was punching Shawn's blood covered t-shirt without even considering the blood when he got hit again.

"Duuude," Shawn whined, pulling his arms around his stomach to protect it from any more blows. "Ouuuuch, Gus. That's _so_ not the way to get the spirits to loosen their mojo jooses."

Gus looked ready to get in another hit when Shawn flinched, then hissed only loud enough for Gus to hear, "The killer has Lassiter, jackass."

"What?" Gus repeated in a similar low tone. His eyebrows raised and he dropped his fist to his side. "What?" he said louder, moving away from Shawn.

"I'm getting some _Lassified _information here," Shawn said in a soft voice, deliberately making the women come closer and make him repeat what he'd just said. He needed a moment, because his whole body was aching and his _former_ best friend had just hurt him worse—and not just physically either. Emotions recoiled, but Shawn fought hard to regain composure long enough to channel them into the show, which had to give not only the expectations of his usual "visions" but highlight some new flavor to really sell this act. For once though, he was not just flying by the seat of his pants; his "psychicness" was perfectly honed with the nefarious goings-on—and they had to buy it. Lassiter was out of options otherwise.

"_You_ have classified information?" Vick said sarcastically, crossing her arms again.

"No," Shawn admitted, raising his left hand to his temple, not failing to notice, as he was certain the others noticed, his arm shaking. He closed his eyes, the flashes of the recent past hitting him, unwanted. He began to describe the serial killer, starting with details of the ghost man, what they knew from the bare bones of how he killed, how he left his victims. After Juliet's impatient hiss, Shawn described the physical details he remembered, giving a face—an agenda—to the ghost. He left nothing out, including even the wound on the killer's right arm where Lassiter's bullet had nicked him, and the redness, its wound unknown, on the killer's chin. He skimmed over most of the words he and the killer had exchanged, as well as the ones aimed specifically for Lassiter.

He wondered, in a prickling pause, if the man had a name and if Lassiter knew it. He shuddered then, trying to hide it by waving his entire body dramatically (it _would_ serve for effect). Shawn shoved the disturbing thought to the back of his mind, forcing himself to smile to hide how horrified it made him; a glimpse: this killer, having given his name freely to Lassiter, slicing into the detective's eyeballs first, then cutting from abdomen to chest, breaking ribs and pushing aside organs to get the detective's heart. Shawn doubled over, knowing he couldn't fake the damage of his attempted murder and the motorcycle accident if he threw up again.

"Mr. Spencer, why exactly are you describing this killer?"

Straightening, Shawn repeated, "I consider that information—_Lassified_," knowing full well he couldn't resist the dramatic pause, and took the rush of guilt he deserved with the anticipation of the women's waiting, because again he needed that pause.

Juliet gasped while Vick muttered, "Lassiter?" They exchanged a glance with each other, both willing Shawn's "vision" to be misinformed.

"What about Lassiter?" Gus cut in loudly, his face a tight mask of anger.

"Lassiter's not here," Vick said in a wispy voice. Juliet felt her ears fill with a rush of forceful nouns: ocean, sand, blood, pain. She wanted to yell out now, because she thought she knew what Shawn might be saying, but she was confused that he wasn't just coming out and saying it. Why would he be holding back?

"Did you hear me?" Shawn snapped, ignoring Gus with a wince. He was suddenly annoyed they couldn't put two and two together and that he might have to spell this out:_ Lassiter's in danger and I know the why, where and how, the who and the what—come on! _Was he _really_ going to have to go back there with one of his father's guns?

Vick and Juliet were exchanging intense glances, but neither urged him a further explanation. Shawn was uncomfortable in the dead silence, especially because inside his head there was screaming.

He knew he had to scare them more. Manifesting his worry as surface pain, Shawn clutched his right side fiercely with both hands, swaying until he got their attention again. "What is this?" Shawn cried, staring at his empty hands, then clutching his side again. "Is this blood? Oh, my god, _there's so much_." He could see the mask slipping from Vick's face; Juliet's face, clouded over with worry, became clear. "The last victim"—whom Shawn knew by name and occupation, whose body he remembered seeing at the beach dump site—"says it's _urgent_! She says she can see—a man with salt and pepper hair who's extra pale today, she says—rushing—no, no, gushing." Shawn shot a look to them. "Ouch, she says ouch, she says—it's L—La—Las—Lassiter! He's . . . what's that? You can see him . . . joining you in . . . I'll tell them! She says he's in such bad shape he'll be joining her in the spirit realm. Chief, we need to hurry!"

"Mr. Spencer," Vick cut in sharply, her mask of anger back in place. "Are you joking? Do you know what I could do to you for making false accusations?" She started to turn away. Shawn's face fell, having a feeling he knew what the boy who cried wolf felt like—right before he was gobbled up by the wolf. "Besides, I would need solid proof before I enter in."

"He's not okay!" Shawn yelled back. He had a feeling there was real fear on his face; this was the worst possible time not to be taken seriously. "Guh, she's showing him to me, right now! He's in pain!" Shawn doubled over again. He had one last chance, and he implored Juliet by zinging her with the reason why Lassiter had failed to answer his phone. "She says—he'll need stitches—" Shawn blurted out, the slices of blood in skin flashing across his eyes; he was getting lost. He fought more details, though it was much too easy to mention every single wound he'd seen, to imagine that there would be more; he hoped that stitches would be the _worst_ thing—but he also guessed _scars_. And that was _if_ he survived— Shawn gritted his teeth, pressing his hand to his side until it hurt. "She says—the killer took Lassie's phone, after he took Lassie."

That was the moment— Juliet took three quick steps to him, grabbing him by the shoulder and straightening him to look in her eyes with strength that told Shawn that the killer was in for a serious match with a formidable opponent. Her eyes like spotlights, she held his, searching for lies or for half truths, daring him to falter instead of confirm that this horrible King of Hearts serial murderer had possession of her partner. She found none.

The rushing broke. Her shoulder blades tightened as she stepped forward, her muscles lengthening in anticipation of a fight. She was ready. Spencer was only a warm-up; her fear took her for a moment:_ NO! God, no._ _Lassiter! No. _Juliet shoved Shawn backwards, almost knocking him over. "Where?"

"Detective O'Hara," Vick called from behind her, sounding shaky but unconvinced. Juliet ignored her, poking Shawn in the chest with another furious "Where?"

"Jules," Shawn whispered, startled.

"Don't you _dare_ say a serial killer—what? Took? Has? _Has_ _my partner_ and not tell me where!" Juliet yelled. Vick followed the pair down the hallway, catching several pairs of eyes looking out from offices or in passing as Juliet cried out. Juliet raised her fingers from his chest, poking Shawn's temple. Like a nutcracker whose lever had just been pulled, Shawn's mouth opened and the words tumbled out, though he'd had a routine planned, a teasing bit from _The Phantom of the Opera_: Lot 664, Lot 665, nay, Lot 66— Here, he would be interrupted by Gus who would plead he not go on. Instead, he blurted, "Samarkand, West Trail and Beach Lane, 6607—"

_The tip. That was the address on the anonymous tip,_ she recalled. "Chief, Lassiter went to check out that tip—the killer," she called over her shoulder.

"I told you!" Shawn protested, switching his gaze between the two women quickly.

Vick nodded, realization flashing across her face. It changed to sickness two seconds later. Shawn Spencer was not here to be an ass seeking attention; he was here to tell her that Lassiter was really missing—that—that he was _bleeding_—

For a few stupid seconds, Juliet was furious at Lassiter, then she was chilled at the bone. _He's in pain, oh, my god. _Her partner, according to Shawn, was in serious trouble—alone— "Bleeding? You said he's bleeding?" Juliet repeated, pushing past Shawn and then beckoning him to hurry along. She moved so fast she didn't get to see him flinch when she reached for him.

"Ye—yeah, that's what she's saying. At his side." Shawn flinched again when he felt another touch—a hand clutching his arm. He suppressed a yell when he saw it was only Gus, bearing down on him with hardened eyes. "He'll die," Shawn mouthed, giving Gus the chance to relent.

"Then _we'd_ better move," Gus said, pulling Shawn towards Juliet's retreating form. There were fast footsteps behind them, and then Vick calling out orders. There was still a chance to save Lassiter's life; though Juliet seemed she might do it as a one-woman-show. Shawn didn't doubt she could; then again, he used to think of Lassiter as almost invincible too.

# # #

In the passenger seat of Gus's Echo, Shawn kept his eyes peeled on Juliet's taillights, her lights flashing but her sirens off, as they followed her through the night. Gus was deadly silent at his side, focusing on the drive and nothing else. Fidgeting, Shawn dug his hands into his pockets; at the touch of cloth, his eyebrows raised. Discreetly, he removed it, unwrapping it slowly as he had before. Still there, the hat pin, the proof of the killer Lassiter had asked him to take. Shawn gulped, and put the whole thing away before Gus could see.

# # #

She didn't feel human anymore, no, Juliet O'Hara was certain that she was now a streak of white light slicing through the dark, fearing nothing, in theory. Fearing . . . only what she was going to find upon arrival, especially if Shawn was correct with his predictions. He had shrank away from her when she insisted he get in the car with her, but was uncaring that Gus pulled him away. Juliet didn't allow herself to think about Lassiter; instead, she went over the details again and again in her head of what this man looked like; she tried to pictured the swagger, the sense of entitlement, how could he possibly—_dammit_. She wanted to think "kill"; though she was a homicide detective, she found the crimes of this killer horrific and unspeakable, that was, almost too much to handle. But she did not think "kill"—she thought "Lassiter". How did this killer get his hands on her partner?

Juliet exhaled harshly, dropping her foot on the gas. She had broken her own rules, she had nearly run out of the station without waiting for orders from the Chief. Her heart skipped a few beats, and she let herself feel betrayed by her own intuition, or by her detective self forcefully telling her intuition, "No way."

These few moments—a warning that Shawn had tried to get them to understand sooner—were too precious to worry about direct orders. All day, the seconds had been ticking away, and she'd sat on her hands, telling herself she was only being foolish that she couldn't swallow the lump in her throat. All day, she had been expecting Lassiter to reappear as his usual pissed off self, ready to ply all personnel with every unkind word known to man. But he hadn't come back. And he wasn't answering his phone. _Dammit_. Juliet kicked herself, letting her car speed up as if by itself. The cold, sick feeling in the pit of her gut told her she was still human, on the level with whomever his man was she was going to get. She had never felt this way before in her life, but the way Shawn had been carrying on was actually hitting her hard; she was out of her body again, a white hot streak of light.

# # #

Lassiter arched his back, tugging furiously at the plastic holding his arms together over his head. He ignored the scraping of the rough surface rubbing off a layer of skin—what skin? Was there anything left that Saul hadn't cut?—and pulled for any give. Even if he could untangle one hand—but after the first few times he found the pain in his side coupled with this movement made him feel weak. Besides, it was getting hard to see. His skin was hot and there was a constant sheen of sweat falling on his half closed eyelids that he'd been dying to wipe away. The moisture was kind of burning him.

Saul slipped the Bowie in between the buttons on Lassiter's stained white shirt and flicked his wrist sharply; the fabric easily parted. Saul moved down the buttons ritualistically, opening Lassiter's shirt down to his navel. Saul used his fingers to pull the cloth away from Lassiter's chest, and then made a vertical, shallow cut from Lassiter's collar bone to his top ribs. Lassiter squirmed, biting the cloth.

"I am toying, friend, with removing your heart from you while you still live," Saul told him, his words piercing the haze in Lassiter's mind. Lassiter writhed, as if he were able to break the zip ties without aid of a knife. After a minute and half, he was soaked with sweat, shaking, and nearly blacking out from what seemed a new tear in his side.

"Was that necessary, lawman?" Saul asked, his dark eyes smiling over his prey. His dark eyes registered surprise when he caught Carlton's momentarily defiant stare. "You do have the alpha in you—and it must be mine."

Carlton ignored him, his eyes darting from side to side, searching again for a way out. A weapon, a sharp thing, something to cut. He could still get up, and run. Or fight. Could he still fight? No? Yes? No?

Saul's steel toed cowboy boot stomped hard on his exposed forearm. Lassiter grunted, feeling the pain spike down his elbow. "I've said it before and I'll say it again: you _ain't_ gettin' away," Saul growled, pressing down with is full weight to urge Lassiter to be still. Lassiter looked up, angry in spite of this new, wicked pain. He swore into the gag but was pretty certain that Saul could understand because a white flash of venom tore across Saul's features. With the certain strength mustered for overpowering his victims and then carrying their bloodless bodies away, Saul, his foot still on Lassiter's arm, whipped his knee forehead. The heel of the boot held Lassiter's arm as if in a vise grip; his arm rolled forward, and then Saul snapped his straightened leg back.

There was no loud crack, or any outward indication of Saul's actions, other than Lassiter's moan. Lassiter's arm up to the tips of his fingers burned and tingled; he knew something had been wrenched out of place. His breath and heart rate increased; for a few seconds a flood of gray water spread towards him like the tide across wet sand. It was fuzziness and he was holding his breath and then talking himself out of it. _Breathe, breathe, breathe. Slower than that._ When Saul lifted his boot and began to stomp again, Lassiter flinched and tensed his neck and head away, every sore muscle tightened. He tried to brace himself numb.

Lassiter didn't know how long he lay there like that, every muscle in a knot; he blinked and his eyes were open. He eased his shoulders blades back to the floor, trying to hide his startle when he saw that Saul was kneeling down next to him. Lassiter bit down hard on the cloth, trying to lie still while Saul's Bowie grazed past his eyes, close enough so he could feel the stagnant air move just so and then disappeared over his head. Saul's left hand clamped around Lassiter's fingers, bending the index and middle fingers of both hand down into a make-shift fist to grip the plastic holding them in place.

Saul was, as Lassiter had uneasily noticed before, alarmingly strong. Or was it that Lassiter had become that weakened? That Saul was actually stealing his energy and his strength and all that other mumbo jumbo bullshit crap the bastard had spouted when he'd first caught Lassiter? Annoyance surged over pain for a few moments—_I know better than to buy into that shit,_ he thought. _Don't I? _Lassiter didn't want to admit that it was hard to believe—or rather, recall with extreme clarity—what he had lived through before he'd entered this godforsaken site of doom. Not to the depths of his morals, but all the trivial things he'd wondered over—spilling the coffee in his fall in the station, the rain, the mosquito bites, near death by falling limb, twisting his ankle and breaking his cell phone, a very scary tumble down a metal staircase, the merits of Juliet O'Hara as friend, partner, and general confidant—Lassiter's thoughts fuzzed. The IA—back further, cutting himself shaving, the dream—Lucinda's stick figure warmth, a fling—not a friend, just a lover—

Lassiter was more than surprised when O'Hara's face returned, not with its usual sweet smile but with a stern frown, a _tsk_ under her tongue. "Don't you fucking die on me, Carlton," O'Hara told him with a scowl.

Saul moved the Bowie blade down against the purpled veins in the arm which he had rolled. The blade had been thoroughly sharpened and Saul was careful with his cuts—he had to know just how deep would get him into his victims' souls, what exactly he could drink and when—if there was an even deeper spring. He would not need to saw; just a couple angled slices would do it—but this was taking such a risk— Saul pressed the blade against Lassiter's wrist and drew it across.

The incision stung; Lassiter guessed this cut was only shallow, but it still brought a burn of pain to the back of his eyes. He couldn't watch what Saul was doing, but he noticed the killer barely daring to breathe, as if he need his full concentration . . . not to hit a major vein.

The thought alone dizzied him; for about ten seconds, he forgot he was on the floor while the room spun around his head.

Another slice, another ache. "There now," Saul muttered, sounding pleased.

Lassiter squirmed, realizing how unwise this move was after he was 3/4 of the way into it. A scream had that dammed at the base of his throat was coming up, and even with the gag in place it was going to be loud. Assuming his voice still worked at all. How lightheaded it made him—in an instant he was more dizzy than when the blade had gone nearly into its hilt—or was it because of that that this felt so much worse?

Saul held onto Lassiter's arm, squeezing hard until a few drops of blood bloomed.

_He just slit my wrist open,_ Lassiter told himself frantically, not knowing what to do. Death must be on its way, plodding down the tunnel, stealing his fear and offering solace. But that was until Saul bent his lips to the opening of the slice and slurped. Slurped.

Carlton despised having the killer touch him, breathe on him; these small gestures were almost worse then the cut of blade into his skin and the cut of the words into his soul. Or at least, he used to think so. This was the worst, out of all of the things that had been done against him, Carlton was sure. And he was certain he was losing his mind because he could still "hear" his partner, warning him not to die. His muscles locked up as Saul sucked the blood directly from his vein. He shivered, first under the touch and breath of violation, but cold did not lift with ebbing of fear. Instead, it curled in his limbs, seeping into his blood, into his porous bones.

"I still need to slap you silly for coming here alone. And I'm going to do it, too." Lassiter's eyes watered, his jaw clamped shut. O'Hara sniffed, and made as if to turn up her nose. "Besides, I need you—you heard what the Chief said—and you need me."

Still bent low, Saul pinched the vein again before continuing. He grumbled, unsatisfied, and took the flat of the blade to the wound to banish any forming clots. He squeezed again.

"I need you," Lassiter agreed, though his speech via the gag sounded like, "Gaaaaaa." His vision was whitening; he imagined cataracts, his blue eyes succumbing to the milky haze of two tone marbles, then what he was seeing was that sight losing its definition.

_It's just a-wittle cut,_ he thought idly, not quite yet hovering about his body, but almost. _Just wittle._ Saul bit him in haste, and Lassiter yelped, noticing O'Hara was still in his head.

Again, O'Hara repeated her first verse, overlapped by the sounds of two slurps, three. The tip of knife had returned to his throat, as if he were still a sort of threat. He stopped feeling a connection to his skin_—I'm losing consciousness_, a clear thought. He could picture the headlines, he could hear his partner—was she tearful? Emotionless? Professional? at his imagined funeral—

_Head Detective Carlton Lassiter of the Santa Barbara Police Department, latest victim of the King of Hearts Serial Killer. Carlton Lassiter Murdered! He was my partner and my friend—my confidant—I barely knew him at all—He was dead to me long before all this—_

Carlton's feet brushed against the bottom of the pool he'd been sinking into. It wasn't water or elemental—barely physical—inky, black and gooey, like tar. It was too hard to breathe here.

# # #

They had seen, from their cover of shadow, a quick peek at Lassiter. Shawn's breath had stuck in his throat when he saw the glint of the Bowie's gray-red tip tilted and poised just below Lassiter's Adam's apple. He heard Juliet's breath hitch as well, then clip with anger. She let the weight of her Glock .17 and its muzzle lead her forward. Saul was bent forward on his knees in an almost a crushed yoga pose; they couldn't fathom what he could be doing so closely—they were both hoping, Shawn surmised, that it was no more worse than whispering, or taunts.

Juliet crossed the line of shadow, appearing like a wild spirit, beautiful and dangerous, her gun ready to do her bidding. Shawn, since he was on this side, standing next to her and not on that, where the killer would be facing her, should he look up, Shawn couldn't fully appreciate the effect of the threat—dark space from which a formidable opponent has materialized from. He did not know that Saul had regarded _him_ this way earlier, until the killer really got a good look—instead of another lone wolf out for a meal, Shawn was only another animal of prey—a mouse, a prairie dog, a road runner—a creature running low to the ground.

Lassiter was not a creature low to the ground—but a lone wolf like himself. He had given Saul a good run—healthy, to see his opponent's defiance and mettle—and fight, _yes,_ Saul thought as he lapped from Lassiter's opened vein, _this one's fight proved the iron will of his blood._ _This is the last I'll need,_ Saul continued to think, absorbed in his task—not noticing Lassiter's cringes or how tightly his jaw was clamped around the cloth—too strong to cry out?—_to have a warrior's life strength._

"SBPD! Get away from him or I will shoot!" Juliet's voice rang out, filling up the whole space. Saul sat back on his heels, his mouth smeared with blood.

"Oh, shit," Shawn muttered. From where they were standing, he could see much too much, and it all looked horrible—and unsurvivable. His shirt had been cut from his chest and there were open, red lines along his ribs and collarbone. A slashed wrist, a stabbed side . . . who knew what else that couldn't be seen?

"Right now!! Drop your weapon! On the floor!"

Saul studied her curiously for a few seconds, then peered down at Lassiter, who was, despite how sweaty and shaky and sick and stuck, peering back with blue eyes remotely conscious. He'd been startled by her voice, how angry and piercing it was outside of his head; if this was the real thing, he needed to stay alive—even for a wittle while. "It's a shame, really," Saul whispered, his voice smoky, a note of loss able to make Lassiter's stomach still turn. He flicked one more look in Juliet's direction, then bent forward again for one last taste.

"Jules," Shawn hissed, as both of them gawked with horror, as Saul was in the act of returning to suckle Lassiter's wrist as if the broken vein would offer him nourishment.

"Last chance! Put the knife down!" Juliet yelled out, watching Saul's descent as if he couldn't hear her voice. _Carlton, stay still,_ Juliet prayed, bending her knees and dropping the level of her aim to the center of her chest. She had only seconds to brace the kickback, but had no regrets at a few minor bruises—this animal was going to _pay_ for what he did to her partner.

Saul didn't have the decency to look up again, take what was coming to him like the weak man he was—or had always perceived himself as, or had it drilled into him that he was. Lassiter held his breath, pressed his lips around the cloth and held still, as if he had heard her thoughts.

Juliet had calculated her aim well; Lassiter felt only Saul's hot, sour breath—the metallics wafting towards his nostrils and main source of air—on his wound before the shot blasted a worm hole in the silence—there was a flash like the filament of a light bulb exploding—and then Saul's body wrenched backward away from him, torso extending as his muscular arms flailed like boiled noodles. There was a spray of blood—Saul's, this time—dotting his dirty face, his stained clothes, but it happened too fast for Lassiter to really get a good look at the point of entry. He'd guess forehead, but he wasn't certain if Saul got nervous—or wise—there at nearly the end, and tried to pull back.

For a few seconds after the shot, Shawn remained glued by the shoes to floor; this was not the Lassiter he had left, though that man had _already_ been in bad shape. He chided himself for acting like Gus, who was, no doubt, pacing in the doorway or halfway back to Santa Barbara by now—it had been hard not to smell the blood, even from several yards away. Juliet lowered her gun, looking over the scene for a moment before heading to secure it; Shawn saw her take a few shallow breaths before she went towards Saul to check out the damage she'd left.

Juliet glanced at her partner with alarm, unable to harness her gag reflex; instead, she jerked her head away for a moment.

Shawn finally came unstuck. He rushed in, mindful of the blood_—oh, hell_—and knelt at a clean spot near the detective's head. Shawn found the knot Saul had tied on the side of Lassiter's face and pulled it loose. Lassiter gasped, automatically licking his lips. He tried to rasp something. "You were supposed to be—" Shawn's eyes alighted on the deep cut on his wrist. "Shit, shit, shit." He grabbed the cloth and wadded it, pushing it over Lassiter's wet wrist. "That son of a bitch."

"Carlton!" Juliet cried a few seconds later, kneeling down across from Shawn.

"You came," Lassiter mumbled, staring up at Juliet's worried expression. He attempted a smile, molding his lips into what he thought it might look like, even at this point. "You came for me. I knew—"

"Carlton!" Juliet's voice frayed, some courage dissolving into a sour salt sea at the back of her throat.

Lassiter's eyes dipped closed. "—you would." It was nearly impossible to hear those last two words. He finally found it okay to fade fast—O'Hara was here now, really here and not just a sassy hallucination, and she knew exactly what to do. After all, he trusted her with his life. . . . He didn't notice her stumble of words, or how she pressed her hand down over Shawn's to stop the ooze of red from his arm, her frenzy or flurry of worries and words, checking his pulse, listening for breath, assessing his wounds, the slender fingers of her left hand bent against his forehead.

"We've got to get him out of these things."

"Is that—" Shawn flicked his eyes in the direction of Saul's sprawled form. "Dead?" He didn't have any desire to crane his neck a few more inches to assure himself that Saul's eyes were wide open—but not because the killer was alive.

Juliet nodded, then turned back to her partner, giving him her full attention.

Shawn wondered if Gus was out front, waiting for the ambulance, the rest of the SBPD who had been slower to believe in Shawn's "visions". When they'd come to the doorway, Gus had refused to enter; it was pitch black and he could pick out every smell, even at that distance—and had gulped back his pride. "I'm not going in there, Shawn," he said, watching as Juliet moved into the shadows after securing the entrance, without waiting for them.

"Dude, I need you."

Gus shook his head, then glared at Shawn. "I'm not going to be any help in there puking my guts out. I'm going to call the paramedics, cut the ETA in half if possible. Stab wound to the side? What else?"

Shawn gaped. Quickly, in a low voice, he rattled off what he remembered.

"You said he'd die." Gus raised an eyebrow. "Were you lying?"

"No," Shawn said quietly at the same time Juliet demanded he get his ass inside. He took a deep breath and left Gus, leading Juliet to the place of Lassiter's torment; he remembered the way, even without breadcrumbs, or droplets of blood, even without light beyond their flashlights. Juliet had not spoken to him, and he had adapted a rare vow of silence as they moved on. He had not thought to ask Juliet what was planning, and had not wanted to ask what they would do if they were too late.

Now, he was searching the floor for something to use to cut the zip ties. He caught his fingers shaking, and turned away from both of them, focusing harder.

Juliet bent forward on her knees. She was careful not to touch any of the open wounds on his face, not to let any stray hair fall against the cuts on his body. She was, for a few seconds, as she had been driving here: in shock, lifting out of her body with fear. But then the voice called out, though it was weak, not more than a whisper, even in her head. _"O'Hara."_ She slammed back into her skin, and found an unblemished area of his arm on which to lay her hand. He was cold to the touch.

"Stay," she breathed over him. "Please, please, stay."


	13. Chapter 12: Disarm Me With A Smile

Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone for the wonderful encouragement you've supplied me with throughout this story and writing process. I appreciate it more than I can express, so I hope you know how much everything means—the absolute happiness of my world. Thank you for reviewing, reading, and with any luck, enjoying. After this chapter, there will be a short epilogue/last chapter, and then onto the sequel.

Thanks for seeing this story through. :) Hope you enjoyed the ride. And thanks again to psychout89 for inventing this challenge.

Reviews, feedback, and constructive criticism are welcome.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't own references to Grimm or _Grimm's Fairytales_.

Minor references to Season One's _Pilot_, _Scary Sherry: Bianca's Toast_ and Season Three's _Disco Didn't Die, It Was Murdered!_

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**Chapter Twelve: Disarm Me With A Smile**

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Was she . . . moments too late? Minutes, seconds, did it matter? Juliet had never—or had not yet—seen this much blood at the scene of a crime, and certainly not from a victim still alive. She squeezed his wrist and bent down to listen to his breathing. Still there, both still there.

She glanced up briefly after she'd returned her hands to stopping the flow of Lassiter's blood from his wounds, and caught Shawn's face, white and grim. He, too, was pressing against Lassiter's wounds, fighting Death which might be coming on to take Lassiter away. Juliet knew her partner was going into shock; she had alerted Vick of her position before they came upon the killer, before her single bullet ended his reign. Shawn had told her what Gus had planned since he was staying behind. These were good things, because Juliet found she could not, now that she had looked at him, take her attention off Lassiter.

She had never seen him in such dire straits, though there had been plenty of times through their years together as partners that she had seen him vulnerable, or scared, or even wounded, though never, not ever ever, like this. Juliet pressed harder, willing that he just hold on, keep holding on because her conscience would shatter if he didn't.

Juliet tasted salt in her mouth, tickling the back of her throat. She angrily fought it back; tears were for grieving, or release; the time for them wasn't now. Her partner needed her, needed her to be strong and to save his goddamn life. Again. She couldn't let him down.

_Got lucky,_ Juliet thought, holding on to Lassiter tight. His eyes were shut, but he was alive. _Can't forgive myself._ After that, everything else she willed silently was demands for Lassiter's life, begging him to stay, promising not leave until he yelled at her to go away. Maybe not even then.

Shawn couldn't speak. He wondered when his jaw had locked; usually he couldn't stop himself from making jokes in the face of death, or of other horrific acts that resembled death. _That's . . . what this is,_ he thought, though he was unable to nod, not even to himself. Maybe later Gus would tell him that his synapses were fried, that this whole day had overloaded his high powered senses, and that he'd burned out.

_If_ Gus would still talk to him later, that was. Would talk at all. Shawn had a terrible feeling—as well as the sore stomach to illustrate it—that Gus had unfinished business with him. The air between them was charged up for a storm; the ozone thick, unwelcome.

Such a bad time; Shawn really wanted to talk—if not now, then soon—once his jaw was loosened. A heavy thing had dug into shoulders, was resting its weight on the back of his neck and it was hurting bad, and pulling him apart inside too. Whatever it was kept slamming into the cage of his ribs; the throbbing had started behind his ears the moment he'd arrived on scene, witnessing the killer confidently holding his murderous knife to Lassiter's throat . . . when he'd known with absolute certainly what his selfish inactions had cost someone else.

Shawn had little problem when his summations falsely accused relatively innocent suspects of murders, or when his powers of grand observation led to confessions or blackmail of real criminals—but he knew, even if he didn't have the words for it to admit it to himself, that he couldn't stand (or stand by) watching his friends—Lassiter and his father included—end up getting hurt. Even if they _were_ guilty . . . which none of them had yet been . . . _except me,_ Shawn thought. _Except me. I'm guilty. Just me._

They waited in silence, for minutes, though for how many neither of them could count. Or count on. Both of them were wearing Lassiter's blood on their hands and clothes.

Footsteps mingled with familiar voices, of cries for actions, of orders. "Santa Barbara Police!" They were turning up dirt, up shadows. "Officer down! Officer down! What's the ETA on that ambulance?" As the SBPD headed by Chief Vick moved towards them, Juliet could smell the earth, and the faint male odor of her partner drowning in his own blood. She had forgotten, for a solitary second, who she was, where she was. But she wasn't ever going to forget again.

Juliet barely registered who was speaking, unwilling to multitask unless it involved saving Lassiter's life, stopping the bleeding, and getting him back conscious. His head had tilted towards her, his jaw slack, but she knew it was hardly a peaceful rest. She had pulled off her jacket and balled it up beneath his head, leaving Shawn in charge of pressure on the opened wrist while she'd checked out the stab wound to his side. She had no idea how much blood he had lost—for a few seconds, after she'd secured the scene, her had mind reeled that there was no chance, no chance Lassiter would open his eyes to life again. Then, she remembered exactly who she was dealing with here, and set her face.

"Over here!" she managed without looking up. "It's bad!"

Shawn jumped up and waved his arms, feeling stupid after a few seconds because he wasn't sure if he could even be seen through the cover of the shadows. When they were through, he sank back down and reassumed his role.

"Holy god," Vick cried out, taking in what was before her with the surrealism reserved for strangers' crime scenes. She saw that Lassiter was still bound, and barked that her officers cut him free.

After his arms, then legs, were freed from the posts that the killer had bound him too, Juliet got in even closer, using her knees to keep pressure on the stab wound. She grabbed the unbloodied arm with the guise of checking his pulse again and pulled his arm down to rest on his chest. Juliet did feel his pulse—it was a small beat, but definitely there. Still there, still there.

"That's your serial killer," Shawn told her, pointing to the mess of Saul. "Lassiter caught him, but Juliet shot him."

"Team effort," Juliet said quickly, not even sure if the words she said were real.

"Lassiter caught him?" Vick repeated, looking over her battered and unconscious Head Detective with disbelief and growing horror. "Or did he catch Lassiter?"

"Logistics, logistics," Shawn muttered, feeling a stab of his old self return. It was hollow. He felt if Gus had come in his best friend might be correcting him—but Gus must still be outside. It was odd to be at the scene of a crime and not have Gus present, only there in spirit. Shawn flinched, realizing the implications of his thoughts. He was about to remind Vick that he'd already told her, all of them, that the killer had grabbed Lassiter, but was physically pulled out of the way as paramedics moved in. Gus. Gus must have flagged them down out there, told them to follow the trail of blood. Juliet was harder to move, Shawn noticed with awe. It took twice as many officers to pull her away than it had him.

"He's been stabbed, his wrist cut open," Juliet was yelling, struggling in their grasp. "That mother-fucking bastard was drinking from his wrist."

"Detective!" Vick said, her mouth open in shock at Juliet's language.

"It's true," Shawn confirmed, taking Vick's attention.

"Let go of me!" Juliet yelled fiercely, twisting in her fellow officers' grips. "He needs me!"

"_Detective_, what Lassiter needs is for the medics to take care of him," Vick told her, taking a hold of her arm. "They'll take good care of him." The young detective was shaking, but Vick wasn't sure if it was all nerves or anger too. On top of that, she had just killed someone—a monster, Vick thought, glancing over her shoulder at the man with the bullet hole in his forehead. True, this monster had committed unspeakable acts—but he still had to be a person, albeit a disturbed one. She had not forgotten what Shawn had said at the station, but she partially appreciated his going out of his way to make her detectives look heroic. Though she knew he would always be a bit theatrical, Karen couldn't help giving him points, even at a time like this, for having a good heart and wanting to support his friends.

Vick motioned for the uniforms to let go of Juliet, and then took charge of her by wrapping an arm around her shoulder and holding onto her tightly. To keep her from going back to Lassiter's side, Karen had Juliet brief her on what happened prior to their arrival. "You saved Lassiter's life, you need to think about that," Vick told her quietly, as if trying to reassure her that her shooting was justified. Beyond them, the CSU team was working and the coroner was readying a body bag for the killer's corpse. Vick watched for a few moments, swallowing hard. She turned back when she reminded herself that his latest victim was not dead; by some twist of fate, their roles had been reversed.

They watched the paramedics work in silence. Shawn came to stand on the other side of Juliet, shyly brushing his hand against hers. When she didn't resist, he took it, and felt her tight squeeze. "Jules, we got here in time. Lassie's safe. Look. He's just sleeping."

Moisture surged into Juliet's eyes and her torso began to shake. Lassiter was so pale and bloodied. He had been covered with blankets, and the trained experts were giving him oxygen and checking his vitals, working on putting pressure on his wounds, enough to stabilize them so he could be moved. Carlton certainly did not look like he was just sleeping; she knew Shawn had not meant to make her upset on purpose.

"It's hard to believe it'll be okay," Juliet whispered.

"I know, Juliet," Vick said. "But it will. You had his back—and he'll—" she broke off as Juliet pulled them forward, following the stretcher carrying her partner. Both Vick and Shawn were surprised by her force, neither protesting that she needed to follow. Vick should argue that she had to stay here, but in that moment she wasn't daring enough to cross O'Hara—Lassiter's partner.

Lassiter would, Vick knew, just hate what O'Hara had been driven to out of a protective instinct—and her duty—for him. Had the shoe been on the other foot, she knew he would have had no regrets shooting or killing anyone who laid a finger on Juliet. Karen shook her head to herself; though she was not a psychic detective, she could already foresee what a struggle it was going to be to force her top detectives into seeking psychological counseling—but, it had to be done. She resolved now to make it a requirement.

Somehow, they all got outside. Juliet let go of them, following the medics through the haze of dark cut through by the neons of red-blue spinning lights. For a moment, Vick was distracted by how youthful Detective O'Hara appeared, seeming to be a girl of Grimm, Red Riding Hood or Gretel, barely making her unscathed escape from the clutches of a fairy tale monster. Then the light changed, and she was a wolf or a witch, predatory and protective, daring in her eyes as she glanced back momentarily at them. Vick had forgotten that Red had actually been swallowed by the wolf's gullet, eaten and digested, that Gretel had acted in self-defense to get herself and Hansel free. Maybe Juliet was just a little of both—girl and sentinel—then.

Juliet was wondering if she should drive her car, or squeeze herself into the ambulance and wait, holding her breath until she passed out. Right. Juliet walked towards her SBPD issue Crown Vic.

She stopped, and turned slowly, addressing Vick. "Please, get someone reliable to take Carlton's car back to the station?" It was a squeaky request. She turned around, and Vick followed her.

Juliet no longer felt like a spirit, like an ethereal thing out to wage a war, and win. She felt old, tired, was shaking all over, though she wasn't actually aware of this.

# # #

They'd forgotten all about him, Shawn noticed with a mixture of relief and disappointment. Even Gus was nowhere to be seen; Shawn wondered if he'd have to hitch a ride back . . . home? to the Psych office? the station? with one of the other many SBPD officers on scene. He vaguely recalled his bike could be a can of sardines—if crushed by speeding police cars exiting the parking lot in a rush—at the station, but he wasn't exactly motivated to go and get it and get back on it. He let himself wander away and no one stopped him, no one told him to stay and give his statement. He thought he was maybe off the hook—at least, one of the many meat hooks he'd already been impaled upon (were those smaller ones fish hooks? Broken glass? The killer's hunting knife? He bit his lip, still firm in his distaste for pointy objects.)—until he made out the shape of Gus's company car, waiting crouched with its parking lights on. It was the first time Shawn had ever thought of the car as threatening, and had ever felt threatened by its owner as he opened the door.

"You're going to the hospital, Shawn," Gus spat out. He pointed to the passenger seat. "Seat belt on, let's go." Gus waited until Shawn was buckled in before he employed the childproof locks. "And just so you're not completely shocked when we get there, I called Henry."

Shawn groaned and reached for the door handle, but the car was already moving, pulling away from the scene of his near death. Shawn's ears were still ringing from the sound of the gunshot, though he was no stranger to guns or shooting. It took almost the entire ride for the thought to occur to Shawn that Gus had allowed him to get into the car—his precious Blueberry company car—so soaked with blood as he was. _Maybe . . . he didn't see, because it was so dark,_ Shawn thought idly, staring at his blurred reflection in the window. Neither of them were speaking and Shawn found he was just fine with that. And later he'd be just as fine not speaking to Henry.

It hit him, all of it, what he'd managed to suppress before . . . or what he hadn't, after he'd broken out of the building the first time, spilling his guts all over the ground. What could be left in him, he didn't know, other than that pinball barb jamming him in the ribs. Shawn leaned forward and hurled on the floor of Gus's passenger seat. Finally, Shawn had his attention.

He almost had to laugh; now there was an even better reason for Gus not to forgive him.

# # #

Shawn found his jaws still stuck together at the hospital, even in front of Henry, who was demanding a thousand answers. Only in the privacy of the examining room with the nurses or doctors or staff—the blur of faces—was Shawn able point to what hurt, to explain a little bit of what happened—in his fall off the bike.

They didn't want to hold him for observation, so he was free to go after they'd seen him, bandaged him accordingly. Walking down the hallway, Shawn wasn't sure whom he dreaded seeing—or going with—more. But to his great surprise, Gus was gone. Henry's face was drawn up tight. "You want to tell me what happened tonight, kid?"

"No," Shawn said.

Henry nodded. "You'll tell me tomorrow?"

Shawn cocked his gaze at his father, wondering why or how he was getting a free pass. He was tempted to tell Henry about throwing up in Gus's car, but he found it was hurting him, almost physically, to see his best friend gone. He knew Gus wasn't coming back tonight, that they'd had plenty of opportunities to speak but neither of them had taken it. Just as well; Shawn had no desire to talk about any of it with anyone. Not ever.

"What's dead is dead," he muttered, ignoring Henry's eyebrow raise. Something new—or very ancient—was forming across him, like a sheet of ice or a calloused skin. Shawn had a feeling, even this early, that new shell or wall was not one of shield, a thing to keep him safe from the outside world. Instead, it was a necessity, the price of silence. But some secrets were meant to be kept.

# # #

He had done something he had believed he would never do—he had willingly abandoned Shawn. Not that Gus hadn't before, but those times had been different; justifiable, even. Running away in the beginning, after Shawn's return to Santa Barbara had heralded the insane musings of working with the police in a fake psychic capacity—the blunderings of their first case as consulting private detectives. Then, from the sorority house, scared off by ghosts. That time barely counted; had Shawn been able to get the door open, they would have both been fleeing the scene of terror. And anyone could surely forgive Gus for choosing life—his own life—over death when Shawn had set off the bomb with the misguided certainty that its maker would disarm it in time.

Apparently, it hadn't been so misguided, but Gus did not feel remorseful for running.

But tonight, since the moment Shawn had appeared at the station all torn up, limping, blood covered, an innervation of—what? pain? anger? cleansing and blank disbelief? had twisted Gus's gut. He shook his head at the last one; he speculated that the sensation came out of irritated rage, with basic hints of disbelief: how had he let Shawn . . .

Gus closed his eyes on his walk to his front door. He didn't know the answer, didn't know how or why he always worried so much over his best friend, how he'd come to know that his worry was most often founded—it was a thing of experience, but that was all he knew for sure. And tonight . . . Gus found he was angry at himself for being right—that Shawn _had been_ out there, getting himself into trouble; Gus huffed. He was not as certain as to why he was so angry that Shawn had decided to go off _alone_.

_They were a team, damn it._ Gus was furious because he should have been there, let in on the secret the first time around. But for some reason he didn't understand, Shawn had not _trusted_ him with it.

He'd done the duty he'd been raised to do tonight, sticking by Shawn until the whole thing was over. He'd waited outside until the paramedics had brought Lassiter out, swallowing hard at the detective's appearance. Gus hadn't known if Lassiter were dead or alive, though he watched the paramedics' determination to get him to the ambulance, so he suspected Lassiter still had a chance.

_More than Shawn had,_ he'd thought meanly at the time. He went to his Blueberry and selfishly called Henry, pondering over his reaction to Shawn's confession at the station. There had been numerous times before that that he'd wanted to hit Shawn much harder than he'd punched him tonight, yet they'd never actually fought like that before. Not hard enough to leave bruises, or doubts, days after. Gus suspected that Shawn was going to forgive him; that in a day or two he'd open up with sweet talk, with bribes, but Gus was resolved not to give in. Not this time. He felt like a sore loser, though he was often the bigger man, while Shawn treated every situation the way a twelve-year-old would.

Maybe, when the wounds weren't so fresh, or some fancy antiseptic had stopped their festering, Gus would be able to forgive Shawn. Maybe when he no longer tasted blood under his tongue, or wouldn't mind going a few rounds with a wall—another unfair fight—to redecorate with holes. He had . . . felt like this before, but it had never manifested, not to this degree. It seemed like a good night to be broken; he was, he thought sourly, among friends.

# # # # #

She'd been there immediately, the instant she knew, the instant the thought was fact and it was in her head. She'd aimed and fired and killed, and she'd fought tooth and nail to stay by his side until they literally had to drag her away. She'd driven white-knuckled to the hospital in her own car, her sirens blaring, nearly tailgating the ambulance, Vick a rock or a stone at her side in the passenger seat, racing through dark streets, cutting a sharp path of light to their destination. She'd been there, in the hospital, demanding the best, referring to her partner again and again as family, refusing to take no for an answer. She'd offered up her own blood—anyone's blood who was within reach (even when they shied away from her). And when it was time, she'd sat at his bedside but hadn't allowed herself to cry, not to shed one tear because her partner had, beyond all odds, survived.

But he slept through all of her visits, through all of her silences, her words shut up inside her as she watched him sleep, as she tried desperately to imagine him at rest, unharmed, before all of this. At first it made sense for him to remain heavily sedated; she hadn't realized until much later, one night, as she got into her bed, pulled the blankets to her chin in her own apartment, how much she'd come to depend on his unconsciousness. She had to be there, of course she did—but the forced silence between them was becoming much too familiar, too comfortable.

Juliet O'Hara realized, right before she closed her eyes that night, that she had no idea what she would say to her partner when he did wake. What should she say? Gush that he was alive, scold him for scaring her, condemn his actions that led him to danger, condone for not calling her sooner? Should she proclaim his captor dead, unable to hurt him ever again? She pressed her face to her pillow.

He looked to be in terrible pain already, the agony literally drawn down his body in long lines of blood—would scar tissue remain? She clutched her pillow and tried to imagine hugging him; she wanted to, just once—pull him close to her so she could feel his heart still at work. It was, she knew, a ridiculous thought; for one, she would never agree to it, even Lassiter would allow her to do it.

Lassiter had needed her—and she had not been there for him. How could she possibly . . . ever be forgiven? A set of shudders took her into sleep, allowing her to spill some tears for the first time since they'd found him.

Would he be ashamed? Angry at her, angry at the killer, the world? Would he rather not see her—would he want a new partner, one he could depend on, one who was there for him at all times?—she breathed deeply. No one else was going to want him as a partner. She was . . . the very best option. Stuck.

# # #

In one of those yesterdays when she'd been by, visiting on a lunch break or in between shifts, she had caught him with a tender smile on his lips, and had been frightened that he had come unglued from his drugged sleep. Juliet couldn't gather together enough thought for a proper greeting, let alone what she might say when he looked at her with whatever anger or pity or disappointment or sadness his eyes held. It frightened her out of the room; she was ashamed she did not feel happy that he could be closer to the surface, becoming, again, his old self. (Even though it was what she missed terribly.)

When she asked the professionals, they'd apologized: no, he was not yet awake. She guarded her relief, and went back in to his room. What, she had wondered, could bring him a smile through what must be intense, though also detached, pain, through unspeakable horrors etched into the limestone of memory? It was nothing she could fathom; she'd let herself cry then, convinced it could have been hours as she emptied her eyes, and gripped his hand until her knuckles turned white.

# # #

In his sedated, sanitized states of mind, Carlton dreamed, sometimes in a loop, of O'Hara saving him, then lying to him that it would just be all right. And he smiled for her, so as to be strong for her; he'd do anything for her. Not just because of one day's events . . . no, it was a culmination, their partnership, the years of trust, mutual trust. It was real, as real as the pain gutting him, as real as the hollowness left in his head from the killer's lies.

Lassiter had time; Juliet had given him time to make it up to her. She was expecting it, even if she'd never say so. This time he had to make it count, use his words. There was hardly a reason he should still be alive, he thought in dreams, or that he deserved it, but O'Hara had decided for him, spoken up for him when he could only gurgle, when he could only slip away. He didn't know what was waiting for him on the other side, but even drugged, he figured it was going to be tough. He hoped he could remember exactly what he wanted to say, and how he'd planned, long before he was safe, to say it.

And after he'd said it, it would be up to O'Hara, maybe to Vick too, to decide if she wanted to keep him around. If he were still fit—mentally first if not physically for a while—to still be her partner. Her friend. She had, long before all this, earned the right to decide. And no matter what she decided, Lassiter knew he wouldn't deny her.


	14. Chapter 13: Until This Is Done

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't own lyrics to the Eurythmics' "Sweet Dreams", or references to Dylan Thomas's poem "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night".

Author's Note: You've made it to the last chapter; hope you liked the story! :) Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing! *Hugs everyone* And for anyone who is interested in a continuation of the stories of these characters, (even of the dead one), there will be a sequel. (Which is also why there isn't much closure at the end of this one. That's on purpose. But I worked on enough closure for this story, if the sequel is not in anyone's future.) Thanks again for the support and encouragement!

Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and so appreciated.

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**Chapter Thirteen: I Can't Sleep Until This Is Done**

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# # #

He had not thought about his blood, what he had lost, where it was if it was no longer in him. At first, as he was losing it, he thought about how it must be soaking his clothes, wet, torn, dirty rags that started off so clean and pressed, and then how it must be pooling, or seeping into the partially earthen floor. He didn't think about how it was on anyone else's clothes, never wondered about his partner, who had been asked repeatedly if she needed medical attention when she'd arrived at the hospital—because he didn't know. He'd gone to sleep shortly after she'd arrived on scene, after he'd seen her and made certain that, this time, she was not an apparition. Satisfied, he gave in, finally letting his consciousness tumble, down, down, down where the killer could not touch him, but where she could still hold his hand and demand his life.

_For the price she'd paid, for the gold coins on his eyelids, slipped deep into her pockets. Rage, the dying lights. _

Had his musings been solely drug induced; he wasn't thinking clearly, surely not? If she told him to get the hell out, he would be crushed, totally hurt . . . but would he be petty enough to let it show?

Of course he would.

He was resolved to beg for her forgiveness. If it came to that.

Carlton Lassiter sighed. He was awake now, and unfortunately aware of too many things, all at once. Still, there were things not as clear, spaces of memory filled up with too much blood.

He knew Saul was dead; he'd remembered, at least partially, the event of the killer's death. His killer—not his killer. He'd been corrected on that factoid several times as he gave his statement, embarrassed to do so, even at its barest bones. "_My killer, my killer. My killer said. My killer did." _

"_Sir, you're not dead."_

_I'm not? Not dead?_ Lassiter had sneered to himself. It wasn't the freaking pain that made him feel dead, or even the humiliation of his mistakes which had led him to be trapped. It wasn't his rescue, or Saul's death either. He sighed, wishing he didn't have to remember, that some it could stay lost. Stay dead, buried. Gone.

He'd been awake now after being unconscious for a solid week. It wasn't the dreams that had bought him back, not even memory, it was just time to wake up. He awoke parched, shuddering, a scream churning under his tongue. He didn't know, at first, that he'd survived, that he hadn't bled out, that Juliet O'Hara had come through as he'd wished it so many damn times over. It took him a bit for his eyes to adjust. _She was bending over him, with wet eyes of blue, with patient eyes, with wide eyes begging him to stay._ He was in the room alone until the machines he'd alerted sent a blur of doctors or nurses in, checking on him and reassuring him with distorted voices, asking him thousands of questions.

_Do you know who you are? What year is it? Who the President of the United States currently is? Where you are? What's your rank and badge number? Do you know who your real friends are? Where are they now? Is there anyone we can call for you?_

As if he were some random John Doe with no memory and no ties to society at all.

They had to calm him down, sedate him, and while he floated above his body, he started to remember what he'd been convinced were his last moments on Earth.

_Why, why did I tried to talk to the man at all?_ Lassiter thought, caught halfway in an uncomfortable dream about the last words he'd exchanged with Saul before he'd been silenced, before his wrist had been opened like a cap to a beer, nursed and savored.

"_Ima gonna take you to the desert, boy, in pieces."_

He shifted, wanting to awaken but also not wanting awaken ever again. The real would be too real, when his eyes came into focus and he had to face his mistakes—and their consequences—with other people in the room.

_"You all worryin' for me, figuring that you're gonna somehow get me caught," Saul continued, then laughed harshly. It ended with a hacking cough. He dropped down close to Lassiter, dragging the blade through his hair. "Well, you ain't." The blade rested against Lassiter's cheek._

"_Didn't you always want a desert burial? Lotsa sun, dust, long quiets, nothing but rattlers for miles and miles." He smiled. "You'll fit right in, lawman."_

Carlton was going to die, and he was being forced to listen to exactly how it would be done, and what would be done after his heart was no longer beating, after it had been cut out of him, tasted, digested, choked on.

Though he'd been unable to force this want to the surface then, Lassiter had thought of the killer's painful death, choking on a too big hunk of heart he thought he could chew. _Tougher than it looks?_ Ghost-Lassiter would ask with ashy lips, cheeks transparent, eyes blinking out.

Only problem with this, besides Lassiter's death, would be the Ghost Killer haunting him into the afterlife—the afterdeath.

But he had not died, he had not gone into the afterdeath with Saul—who'd been efficiently and expertly blown away by his partner. "Came after me," he whispered. "She came after me."

Her arrival had been nothing short of a dream; Lassiter was hardly used to wish fulfillment, and found himself unable to aptly describe it—or why some Fates had chosen him to live. By all accounts, he shouldn't have. Even the survival following all of that blood loss, his body shivering with shock for too long—how did he pull through? He got enough new blood, got his wounds stitched up tight; the stitches or their pull on his skin hurt badly, but it was a life ache. His heart still beating, the new blood slowly assimilating to become his own. He wondered how many places on his body were seriously injured enough for stitches; how many just covered with bandages; he was in pain all over, despite the meds. And his mind was a real mess; no way could he go in there right now and take a look around; that was your basic suicide attempt.

But when he had come back, awake and more aware, he had looked into his own head. Saul was grinning there, dead, blood smeared across his mouth. "Lawman," he'd hissed.

Carlton resolved that he could wait for O'Hara to come back (for she must have been here, while he slept), to slip into his room and perch by his bedside, trying to grab his hand. He might just let her, as long as they were alone.

# # #

He didn't know that, at this moment that he was awake, floating under harsh fluorescent lights, his partner was fighting for his livelihood in front of IAB, that she'd gotten up early (after not sleeping restfully, though she'd applied enough makeup to give the appearance of being well-rested) and prepared her index card notes, making sure she'd memorized them for her "presentation"—making sure the words sounded natural enough to not be "prepared". She didn't want to leave too much to chance, or to emotion, but she wasn't unrealistic; emotion would not be far away. Just as well; she didn't want to sound rehearsed, or like a robot.

She'd dressed as professional as she usually did, pulled her hair back tightly to look severe—someone serious, someone with authority. Not that she was counting the Chief out, but she felt she owed this to Lassiter—in the event that something went hinky.

She thought it was extra sick to be discussing Lassiter's role—and future place in the department—without his being here. That's why it was so important _she_ be here. There might be blood, but she resolved to not leave this room without a fight, if that's what was required.

Juliet knew that IAB had read Lassiter's statement/briefing. She had, too, learned its gist. IAB had not anticipated her appearance, but she'd parked herself in Vick's office and refused to leave, even at threats of disciplinary actions. "I have things to say to you," Juliet said, addressing the two IAB agents who had returned, headed up by Ocampo, whom she had a certain distaste for. She kept a check on scrunching her nose; and kept her face neutral, for a while.

She went off script early on, when Ocampo attempted to railroad Lassiter for misuse of his authority, for disregarding his resources and for sticking his neck out to protect Santa Barbara denizens from the vicious murderer. Juliet had realized that the gathering could be swung negatively in her direction, and resolved to defend her own actions as well as that of Lassiter's.

It was so important to be here, she told herself, because they were questioning Lassiter's continuing position as not only Head Detective but as a police officer with the SBPD. Because they were suggesting not a temporary leave of absence, or even unpaid suspension pending an investigation into Lassiter's actions, but a swift termination. Juliet knew Vick would not allow this, but she was not leaving without sticking _her_ own neck out.

"That psychopath put more than his hands on my partner," Juliet snapped when pressed too hard. "I was there—I witnessed that evil man—" She took a few quick breaths to rein in her anger. "He was _drinking_ from Lassiter's wrist, after he'd slashed it open, veins and all. You are _not_ going to stand here and tell me, to my face, that my partner does not deserve fair treatment."

Vick and both of the Internal Affairs Officers were stunned silent. Ocampo was a harder man to appease.

"Lassiter is a good man," Juliet continued, "and I can't believe for one second that you would feel he should face suspension for his actions—he was tracking this killer in the line of duty. He did everything in his power to call for backup, and then was abducted by this killer—he was almost murdered!" Juliet stepped back, trying to deliver this as rationally as possible. It wouldn't do her or Lassiter any service if she let her emotions get out of control. "I also stand behind my actions when it came time to save my partner's life. I would do it 100 times over, exactly the same." She paused, waiting. As if she expected them to ask for _her_ badge, she pulled it from her belt.

When Vick saw what she was about to do, she intervened, shocked. She pulled Juliet aside, out of earshot of the IAB. "Just what do you think you're doing?"

"Standing by my words and actions—and by my partner," Juliet told her firmly.

"Lassiter will never speak to you again if you give up your badge for his sake," Vick told her, glaring. _And after all he's been through, he'll need you,_ she thought.

"I'm not doing this for him, I'm doing it for me—and because that bastard nearly killed Carlton—_god_. These office politics are crap—with no merit. And I refuse to stay silent, especially after Lassiter was doing his job and ended up in a dire situation, and now they want to yank his badge for good? How is that justice, Chief?"

Usually, Juliet's large, shining eyes had no affect on Karen, who had become very good at glossing over everyone's emotions and carrying on with her own business. But dammit, her Junior Detective was making sense. She nodded once at Juliet, then turned to IAB. "I believe this meeting is over," she told them firmly.

"It's not up to you," one of the agents told her.

"Yes, I think it is," Vick retorted. "Especially since the first meeting you had arranged was under false pretenses."

"What? False pretenses?"

"The way I understood it, you sent investigators in for department wide interviews—and instead, I come to find out as the meeting starts that your Agents came to dress down _my_ Head Detective."

Ocampo faltered.

"On direct orders from you, no doubt," Vick continued. "Now, I feel it is best to side with Detective O'Hara—you have absolutely no basis to pull anything out from under Detective Lassiter, especially after the ordeal he has been through, protecting Santa Barbara from the serial killer's striking again."

Ocampo raised an eyebrow. "Protecting? By endangering himself unnecessarily?"

"How dare you," Vick growled, startling Juliet because she had been about to say the exact same thing. "You know what his statement said."

"It escapes you that I don't have to answer to you when it comes to my actions," Ocampo countered with some grace.

Vick allowed an angry smirk to overtake her face. "You forget that I can file an IAB report of my own on any investigator of the IAB which I see is abusing his or her position and resources. And especially since you've had it out for Detective Lassiter since Chavez's murder—" She raised an eyebrow. "What, exactly, is it about him that is threatening to you?"

Ocampo coughed, apparently not enjoying the direction this meeting had taken.

"It's that, as a team, Lassiter and I took out a serial killer," O'Hara spoke coldly for Ocampo, staring at him. "Spared the city thousands for a likely expensive trial."

"A team?" Ocampo sputtered.

"I'm saying," Juliet continued, hoping Vick would not interrupt her, "that if you have something to negative to say about him, then you better say it to me too." She was keeping her voice even, civil, but she could feel anger, hot and steely, colorlessly filling the skin of her face. "What exactly about _me_ is threatening to you, sir?"

"As I mentioned, Ocampo is on his way out," Vick assured O'Hara. She hoped Ocampo would take this last hint and leave; O'Hara's words were worrying her and she wanted a chance to speak to her in private before O'Hara voiced something dangerous. Vick gulped, staring at the Junior Detective. The muscles of O'Hara's neck were tight, her shoulders straight and poised, her arms—hands in loose fists—hanging at her side. Her lips were closed, but it was much too easy for Karen to imagine the sharp teeth inside O'Hara's mouth, wanting—fresh meat. Or, in this case, chewy, tough and indigestible meat—but she still would go for the throat. It could cost her her job—a thing of great importance, and a thing which she had nearly surrendered willingly before, Vick recalled with a startle, when Ocampo first spoke against Lassiter.

To her relief, Ocampo and the other two IAB agents took leave, with no threats to return. O'Hara did not relax, however. She looked as if she was still on pins and needles, as if IAB would come back, would try to argue with her again—she looked like, Vick realized slowly, as if she wanted blood.

"Detective, may I have a word with you?"

Juliet waited, still looking too grave for Karen's taste. She sighed, and began a subject Juliet was not expecting.

"He's been asking for you," Vick said, adding that she'd been to see Lassiter quite a few times. What she didn't add was his hollow look, how he flinched when she'd reached for his hand, but didn't offer a cruel word or scowl or anything to his usual when her fingers squeezed his. Or how he'd "allowed" her to sit with him as long as she wanted, even in silence; his unspoken want to have familiar people near. Even Buzz McNab had confessed, in confidentiality, to her a similar experience; though he certainly had not tried to touch or even barely speak to the senior detective. Lassiter had not once, McNab had told her with an eerie air, tried to chase him away.

After he'd returned, he'd wandered about the station looking haunted. Vick did not need to ask why.

Of the long list of visitors, Shawn Spencer was not among them. He'd come to the hospital once with Gus, who had gone in to leave the detective, sleeping at the time, a small sachet of Central Coast samples, but Shawn had fidgeted in the waiting room restlessly.

"You've been to see him." For the first few days and nights, Juliet had found herself glued to either a chair in the waiting room or, later, when they allowed him his first visitors, in Lassiter's room, in one of those chairs. But as he grew closer, closer to consciousness, to becoming lucid enough to exchange words with, she had grown inexplicably frightened.

"You know him; if he were—" she broke off, shaking her head. "He never asks for anyone."

Juliet's insides pitched, and she felt an inky, imperfect line of something akin to pain travel past her forehead. She imagined herself taking slow steps through the corridor, pausing at his door, spreading her fingers over its polished surface before letting her hand close around the door handle. Her voice always died in her throat when it came time to say his name and have him not only recognize her, but offer a reply. She wasn't sure if she could do this.

"Chief, I have . . . many cases requiring my attention," Juliet said, stating the obvious so she wouldn't have to deal with this not now, not now. She almost wished Vick would have just reprimanded her for speaking out of turn in front of Ocampo. This was worse. She watched Vick purse her lips, and then release her from the room with a dismissive hand gesture.

# # #

Vick returned to visit her Head Detective after she had left the station that night; she wanted to tell Lassiter of the progress of the meeting with Ocampo.

"Chief?" Lassiter asked. She had been his first visitor that he'd been consciously aware of, and was also his most consistent one. Vick noted his disappointment; he had really been hoping she was someone else. She took it in stride. She sat down and they chatted briefly and then she got to the point.

"Your partner fought Ocampo and IAB and won—you're keeping your badge, your gun, and your status, and so help me god, they will not come near you for a while."

Lassiter had to smile a little. "That was you, Chief?" he asked softly.

She was touched, and taken aback. She could only manage to nod.

He nodded back, mouthing the word.

"Don't forget Juliet."

"Never," he said, and his eyes shone.

"The Mayor also wants to give you a commendation for—"

Lassiter's mouth dipped. "I don't want it."

"What?"

"It doesn't—it's not—honorable. What happened," he said quietly. He couldn't even say he was just doing his job, that what happened could happen to anyone in the line of duty.

"Tell him—to give it to O'Hara. She's the one who—" _Saul reared back by force; a spray of blood. An intense relief then, now, that Lassiter's hope of the man's death had come—before his own. _"She stopped the bastard." He looked away from her.

Karen bit her lip to stop herself from dumping anything sentimental onto him, or uttering anything sounding unfriendly. She tried to gather something, a subtle mix of trite and cold comfort, but he spoke before she could.

"After . . . a while," he started, then paused, still not looking in Vick's direction. "I forced myself to believe O'Hara would find me. I . . . it's crap." He took in a breath through his nose. "It was crap, and I knew it, I knew . . . I was going to die . . . he was going to kill me. I knew it." Two more breaths, faster. Then more, that blurred. "But I still believed . . . in her."

A confession, some lines written in on the blank pages of a journal in the recesses of his mind.

Karen felt the weight of his sadness; his partner had been absent since he had awoken. He spoke the words before she could think. "Is she ashamed of me, Chief?" So raw, so honest.

"Wha—" she breathed, but he kept on. "Is that why . . . she stays away?"

He was giving her a puppy-dog look that usually only McNab could pull off genuinely and get away with. Vick guessed Lassiter wasn't aware of it, or he would have guarded his expression more carefully. Goddamn him, the look was getting to her. She wanted to make it go away, and not knowing the truth, she had to lie.

# # # # #

Two days passed, then three—it was the limit, Karen had decided. She left her office and went down the hall towards Juliet—this time she had to get through.

"Detective O'Hara?"

Juliet looked up slowly from the stack of paperwork on her desk. For a moment, she was glad of a reprieve because her hand was starting to cramp—then she realized who was addressing her. Her Chief looked back with patient consideration. "Chief," she said.

"I wanted to ask you, when do you plan on going to the hospital again?"

Juliet stared off into space for a few uncomfortable seconds before moving her eyes back to Vick. It was obvious, then, that she had been avoiding this task (though they had partially spoken about her lack of involvement only a few days ago, Juliet ignored that fact); that she had made herself scarce after the first few obligatory visits. She _had_ gone once when he had been awake—but she'd cheated because she'd known he was heavily doped up; he'd been less than aware of her presence. She and Carlton had yet to really talk beyond the surface pleasantries, her heartfelt concerns. It hurt her to really think about that limitless loss—that he could have been taken—lost— Not misplaced, not stolen. It hurt her intensely, greatly, bringing along a physical ache of sharp, knife-like pain in her stomach. _'Sympathy pains'?_ she wondered. _Perhaps._ Then there were the other matters.

It didn't bother her what other people thought of him; she had seen the bad, but she also knew of much good—something only a partner like herself could know, because she was as stubbornly cheerful as he was plain old stubborn.

Without meaning to, Juliet blurted out, "How can I?"

Vick raised an eyebrow, gathering breath for what she hoped was a simple speech and a quick fix—a small bandage on a gaping hole, but as good as it was going to get for these moments.

Juliet wasn't finished. "How can I possibly understand . . . what he went through?" _He was so viciously attacked—used—taunted—abused._ Involuntarily, that old song "Sweet Dreams" threaded through her mind: _"Some of them want to use you, some of them want to abuse you. . . ."_

Vick closed her mouth, changing her tactic. "Is that what you're afraid of?" she asked gently, keeping her eyes on her Junior Detective.

Juliet kept her own eyes guarded, refusing to let through that what she had said aloud was only one of many apprehensions.

"That he won't want to see you because—" Vick continued. She, being wise to the aftermath of situations such as these, caught a little bit of what her detective was hiding, even as Juliet looked away. Juliet parted her lips several times but couldn't quite form the words she was looking for. She gave in, staring into space again with her lips pressed tight.

"Juliet," Karen said, "I'm going to let you in on a fact I'm certain you already know well." She waited until Juliet offered her full attention. In the meantime, she dropped into a chair just in case she needed to be motherly with a pat on the hand, a squeeze. This was a special case, and she could allow herself to be this person that she was usually not while on the job. "Carlton needs you," she said when Juliet looked back, ready. "He's indebted to you"—a stern raised hand warned Juliet not to interrupt—"and he was indebted to you long before all this. Since, if you don't mind my professional and personal opinions, the first year the two of you were paired up as partners."

Juliet sat still, trying not to squirm or look away. Maybe she wasn't quite as ready for this pep talk as she'd thought. But maybe . . . there was something to what her superior was telling her. "He . . . needs me," Juliet spoke softly, pinning her eyes to the desk. "More than ever? And I'm being . . . selfish?"

Vick pursed her lips, her logic folding back onto itself. She felt the deadening weight of duty—heavy stones; this was going to take time. "Detective," she returned, "you're not selfish. What has—all that has transpired—it's a lot to handle. But—" She held the word until Juliet pulled her eyes up again. "But you still have a duty to fulfill. Because you chose to . . ."

Juliet's mouth twisted sardonically. "Be his friend, is _that_ what you are leaning towards, Chief?"

Her biting tone startled Karen, who sat back in her chair. She hadn't meant it in so many words. Or had she?

"I don't regret it," Juliet said, leaving it to Karen to assume just what she meant. She sighed. "I just . . . I was thinking that . . ."

Karen nodded, understanding that her Junior Detective meant to spare the Head Detective any unnecessary humiliation. Juliet didn't care, at least not right now, if Carlton had frustrations to vent all over her, if he had anger in spades and wanted someone to scapegoat—but she seemed to fear that the opposite awaited her. "Do you . . . is it hard for you to—" Vick couldn't finish the thought, finding it ridiculous that Juliet O'Hara would be judgmental or critical of her partner's victimization—or its aftermath of extreme discomfort for the both of them.

"I—I don't want to hurt him," Juliet said, her eyes at her desk again. "But . . . but if he needs me, how can I deny him?" She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes and looked up again, tiring of this yo-yoing. She wished Vick would spare her any more concern and just get up and leave. She wanted to again lose herself in as much paperwork as she was due.

"Juliet, this is between the two of you—but you must know that his recovery, as well as your own, will be difficult and challenging."

"_My_ recovery?" Juliet scoffed, again pushing loose strands from her forehead.

Vick nodded and stood, leaving Juliet with look that told her she really needed to think about that. "I'd do it again," she called after Vick, her chin raised defiantly, though her voice wobbled ever so slightly. "He was—barely human."

At first Vick pretended not to hear, but then she tossed over her shoulder, "Don't tell me. Tell him." As she walked away, Karen chewed the thoughts that Juliet had not spoken aloud—the way she was blaming herself for ignoring her "intuition"—though none of them actually knew. None but, apparently, Shawn Spencer. Her forehead creased, and she almost stopped walking, but figured that the time to give this pause was not now. Recovery awaited both of her detectives and she knew that she would be required to be a strong and solid figure, a voice of unwavering reason, a mother, a friend, and through it all, as professional as needed. She was as ready to dole out tough love as well as to grant leniency when warranted.

Though the last thing Juliet O'Hara had said bothered Vick: that the murderer she had shot in the line of duty she viewed as hardly a person—hardly a human being. Vick vowed to make herself available, even more so than she was now. If Juliet, immune to the situation up until the last minute, was having difficulty admitting the killer was indeed human, then just what was her very traumatized Head Detective going to say?

# # # # #

Finally, the period of vast procrastination was through. Juliet felt ashamed that she'd let so much time pass. She went in without knocking, and interrupted Lassiter eating a glob of orange gelatin. She wrinkled her nose and wished she'd thought of bringing him some kind of edible food. It almost made her turn around, but it was too late. He'd seen her.

Lassiter paused, the spoon to his lips, disbelieving she was not more than an apparition. But then he watched her breathing, and saw that her face was tight with anxiety. He let the spoon drop. The gelatin bounced from the tray to the table. "O'Hara?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Juliet's smile was wrinkled; eventually, she escaped the pins of his eyes which had pressed her shadow against the wall, and stepped forward. "Carlton." She didn't say that he was awake, and he didn't ask her where she had been. Finally she spoke again. "It's . . . good to see you." She meant it, and it choked her up. _Damn emotion_. When she got to his bedside, she fidgeted before sitting down. His eyes were so haunted, so much more than she'd ever seen in all their time partnered up. She felt their individual undertows. She was going under, for sure.

Lassiter couldn't believe she was really here. It was . . . almost like then, like before; he was still not used to wish fulfillment, but he was a patient man. He had been waiting—believing that she was going to come back. "You too," he said quietly, watching her sit, watching her watching him, not taking her eyes off his.

They looked each other over in a steady silence. They both were thinking almost similar thoughts: "Thank god you're alive. Thank god you came back. I need you. I always will. Thank god for you." Unspoken thoughts. Too sentimental to be spoken, too familiar.

Carlton had not expected this doppelganger of his partner; he expected gushing, overt concern, well-wishing, but he wasn't about to complain for the silence where she was present, where he could reach out and squeeze her shoulder if he wanted. He decided it was time to say the things he'd wanted to, that he had survived for this purpose. But saying the words were hard—not because of his pride, or because he'd changed his mind. He figured she already knew his reasons for the difficulty—he suspected it was part of why she stayed away. There was something, too, that she wanted to say, or something that she was fearful to hear.

"I'm . . . proud of you," Lassiter began, his voice hardly above a whisper. He choked up trying to say more.

At first, Juliet didn't know what to say; she tried to sort out if his voice was so low because it was physically impossible for him to put more volume into his words or if because saying the words at all were the most difficult thing he'd ever done in regards to her. Then, she tried to sort out her emotions at hearing them—should she take it as a compliment or should she go out into the hallway and spare him the war of emotion running across her face? It took her a very, very, very long time to understand that there was more behind his words than him telling her, "Job well done."

Then, the swell of emotion hit her with a violence she fought hard to keep to herself. "Oh, Carlton," she managed softly, allowing herself to sound the least bit choked up again.

"I . . . don't say it enough," he continued.

"You _never_ say it," Juliet interrupted, holding his eyes. He let her, because he understood she had more than earned this.

"Not—not with my words," he admitted. He explained gently his one hope that had kept him alive while under the King of Hearts killer's thumb—he had been waiting for her to find him. He had such faith in her that she would arrive that he'd managed to restrain his consciousness until that moment. It sounded to her like a ridiculous fairy tale wish, so unlike him too. But still, Juliet was touched. Her stomach clenched. She listened to his straggled words as he said the things he needed to say.

Juliet had used Carlton's words (_"You came for me. I knew—you would.")_ as a pulse, a light to guide her through the darkness as she'd waited for him to be okay. When he'd tried to smile then, after she'd found to him, she'd nearly lost it, but had bit back her tears because she knew what she had to do then. Now, she just had to ask. She had to know.

"So you don't—um—you don't . . ." Juliet rolled her eyes at herself fumbling over these words she had rehearsed several times in her head. His eyes were on her, waiting with a patience she wasn't used to; might never be used to. She forced herself to say them, "You don't want a new partner then?"

Carlton stared back blankly before his features changed to hold traces of fear, in his eyes, under them, at the corners of his mouth. She recognized the subtle signs, but she couldn't place why he was showing them here, right now, in reaction to her words. Juliet was unprepared for his next reaction—a rumbling sob that couldn't possibly be passed off as a low growl or snarl. He didn't even try to hide it; Juliet was stunned. Again, it took her much time to figure and gauge his reaction—was this a sign of PTSD? Was her old partner still inside this man in front of her, her partner who was angry and conceited, grumpy and humorless? The partner who never expressed his gratitude towards her presence, who barely looked upon anyone with anything but contempt? Juliet amended the last as she witnessed Lassiter cry, the sounds in his mouth soft yet loud against the soundless slip of tears—not many falling—in his eyes.

She hurried the rest of speech, an apology for some miscommunication that had kept them apart, that had brought him to so much harm, and was he sure he didn't blame her? Juliet felt stupid for asking for his forgiveness at a time like this. He didn't stop crying, didn't look away, and she feared she had made him so miserable—though she wasn't so certain how, or why.

That's when he'd countered her, quietly, his voice soft and wet, explaining the reason he had become so upset just now.

Juliet pushed through her discomfort, even though she wasn't sure what to do with the tables turned—even though the few times she had been in serious scrapes her own reactions were never this intense. She pushed literally too, lifting her hand from her side to reach through the rail on his bed, rest her hand on his.

They stayed like that a while. Juliet eventually found her voice caught and nearly entombed, laced up fatally like Snow White's corset, in a complex spiderweb of thoughts, and she tore it away with her sharp tipped fingernails. "I'm not going anywhere," she told Lassiter quietly, steadily, repeating it without realizing she was, her voice like a lap of tide against a shore, just as the evening sun was going down. Then: "I will always come for you."

It was a promise she wasn't positive she could keep—like the promises that sometimes slipped out of her mouth when it came to telling surviving family members of murder vics that the killers would be found and brought to justice. Lassiter squeezed her hand so tightly she was certain she could feel them turning purple. "I will—for you," he repeated, hitches in his voice swallowing some of the words. "I will—"

In spite of everything, Juliet smiled. He was making the same possible to-be-broken promise to her. It was sweet, she decided. "I know." She shuddered a little, tightening her shoulder blades together to hide it. As he squeezed his eyes shut, she kept her eyes on his face. Wasn't she damn lucky he'd forgiven her? That he didn't hold her responsible for his misfortunes? That he was alive and that his abductor was dead? She clenched his hand harder to hide another shudder. Wasn't she damn lucky that he needed her so much—and that he'd said so?

Fuck. Yes.

And wasn't it such a strange twist of fate for him to fear the same thing she had—because, he'd been sure, his mistakes had cost him her as a partner, as his friend?

They talked for what may have been hours; no one was counting time.

"Do you remember . . . when I got there, Carlton? What was going on?" she asked carefully, worrying that she would upset him any way she asked.

His face was blank. She let him chew it over. Finally, he turned away from her, seemingly embarrassed. Remembering this was worse than breaking into tears as she looked on. "Yes," he said gruffly, still turned from her.

She sighed softly; it was his choice to look at her or not. But she was going to tell him the truth. "I was . . . Carlton, I was furious at what I saw."

He winced.

"And I . . ." Juliet forced herself to hold her tongue, to not blurt out she would have killed Saul regardless of his giving her a good—better—reason to do so. But she also didn't want to say she tried to give him a chance to surrender, that she'd prolonged Lassiter's agony out of protocol. She felt tears come to her eyes. "I felt so helpless when I saw how much pain you were in."

He still didn't look at her, and seemed to ignore the thickness in her voice. But when she spoke next, he turned back to her, the surprise written on his face at the downright coldness of her whispered statement.

"That bastard had to die."

Lassiter's mouth pulled tight as he looked her over. Underneath her words was a dark promise, or a veiled threat, directed at a dead man: "No one, NOT NO ONE, hurts my partner and lives." He breathed through his nose. This was 'Saul speak'; Juliet wouldn't use those words. But still, weren't they there, underneath? He tried to find something reassuring to say to her, but he came up empty. And feeling a little unnerved himself, he chose instead to thank her again. "You saved my life," he said gently. When he saw her start to chastise herself for not being there sooner, for not knowing, he stopped her. "I don't just mean . . . from him." He hit her with a broken smile—a gesture which made the coldness melt off her face, slip out of her eyes.

# # # # #

_He kept coming back to this, in medicine induced dreams, in his lucid moments, any time he tried to think, or not think. _

_It was strange, wasn't it, what so much blood loss could do, how it could eat away holes in his memory, editing out little things, yet leaving him with every clear detail . . . of Saul. As he was slipping away, however, it was not the killer breathing over him, but the set face of Juliet O'Hara._

"_Stay. Please, please, stay."_

_His mind had been more than breached; his soul more than desecrated. All around him, ruin. (And yet, a flickering light that would not die out.) He had to do one more thing or he would never be free. One more thing masquerading as many: a journey to return to his center, to heal his many wounds, and to remember just who was the better man. _

_The journey back might test his scars, what else that remained. But he knew he had to climb the hill to see it was a mountain or a staircase, if it was a cliff or an imaginary line set diagonally to the horizon. Would it be an arduous passage? It was easy to say yes. His first few steps taken had not been real footsteps at all but marks on the ground where he would set his feet when he finally stood up. _

_But he knew that he would not be making this journey alone. _


End file.
